


Season Unending

by dakatmew



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Conflict, F/M, Infidelity, Marriage Contracts, NOT COOL, Negotiations, Redone, So much angst, but neither is the dragonborn, but trying to be happy, honestly why, no morality at all, rewritten, they're all terrible people, ulfric's not being cool, war pacts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2018-09-12 05:00:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9056410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dakatmew/pseuds/dakatmew
Summary: AU to the quest Season Unending. At the peace talks, the Stormcloaks instead make a surprising offer to lay down their arms completely, in exchange for one thing. But after saving the world, will the Dragonborn really be okay with giving up her freedom after fighting for everyone else's?





	1. Chapter 1

“For the last time, I need to know my city is secure before letting a dragon into my city, and into my keep!” Jarl Balgruuf reiterates, the Jarl agitated by the already-stressful conditions of the war, and the regrettable request I gave him only moments ago.  
Frustratingly, there is no way around it. “Jarl Balgruuf, you must trust me. This is the only way I can defeat Alduin, and save the world. Do you want your children to die before they’ve even seen their coming of age?”  
He huffs. “It’s not that I don’t want you to do this; I just can’t endanger my city like the way you’re asking me to! I’d leave my people open to attack by the Stormcloaks. They’ll seize any opportunity they can to lay waste to a city, and I can’t let them do that to my people! It’s dangerous enough as it is with them already a threat, but if my guard force is distracted by a dragon? In the keep? We’d stand no chance!”  
I sigh, leaning back in my chair. We’re sitting at a table, nursing wine to help with the troubling request. It’s made by Nords, so not particularly flavorful, but they seem to appreciate it more than a robust Elvish wine, one of the only good things about the White-Gold Concordat. It made getting it into Skyrim, and the Empire, much easier. I wish that more humans would keep it around. “Would it help if I requested a division of soldiers to help defend the city beforehand?”  
Balgruuf shook his head. “I doubt that would help enough. Even in the event of a battle, free of any possible dragons appearing, I doubt a single division of your soldiers would be enough. And, Dragonborn, I know. I know that you’re a veteran of the Legion. You’re just trying to hold Skyrim together, but you’re doing it for the Thalmor instead of for the Empire. One damn division of your soldiers can’t possibly be enough to hold back an army, or a dragon! I don’t want you in my city any more than I want the Stormcloaks!”  
“I can request more, if that would help,” I add, trying to convince him still, though it feels like a failing hope. Getting through another elf’s ward on the battle ground would be easier.  
Balgruuf heaves a sigh. “I appreciate the try, and the offers of support, but I don’t think it would be prudent to do so when Whiterun is vulnerable to attack. If there was a truce, perhaps.”  
“A truce?” I ask, curious. “That… might work, actually. Of course, it’d have to be brokered on neutral ground….”  
“I doubt that they’d object terribly, thanks to the fact that you’re trying to save the world. And that you’re the Dragonborn, of course.” Balgruuf brings his wine to his lips, taking a hearty gulp.  
“At the very least, if I managed to set up a perimeter of Legionnaires around Whiterun, would that be enough? I’m not sure whether the Legion and the Stormcloaks would be agreeable to meeting to even talk about a truce, temporary or otherwise.” I scowl at the thought, the idea of meeting those racist bastards to discuss a truce a foreign enough concept that it makes the wine in my goblet taste like goblin piss.  
“I’ll consider it, but a truce would be the best option. If you want me to agree to this disastrous plan of yours, you’ll have to get it,” Balgruuf warns, his tone clear.  
I sigh, but set my goblet down. “Then I am off to talk to the General and that rebellious asshole who calls himself High King of Skyrim despite not deserving a single ounce of the respect it has.”  
Balgruuf raises his cup to me as I exit, my cloak swirling around me as I walk out of his private quarters and Dragonsreach, vanishing into the night.

I haven’t been in the Legion for a little over a year, since I found out about my unfortunate destiny as Dragonborn. I was a battle mage, and a damn good one, like most of elvish descent. I served for fifteen years, and made Legate in record time, an oddity for a battle mage to be. Usually, we have our own rankings and own hierarchy, but General Tullius himself brought me up to my position, letting me advise him on various strategies and work with more military personnel than I would have had the opportunity to do so.  
I heard about him in the lower ranks, a respected General, known as the fixer of problems. Most people admired him for his ability to command troops in battle, and, yes, fix the problems the Emperor sent him for. He sat directly on the Emperor’s council, advised him on battle strategy in the Great War, and led the charge in over a dozen battles that faced overwhelming odds against them.  
To say that he wasn’t an impressive figure in both the ranks and gossip, among even the mage corps, would be simply and utterly incorrect.  
In the few years before I left, we had campaigns together, and fought side by side many times. I healed his wounds, he watched my back, and we commanded the forces of the Legion with perfect synchronization. He’s a close friend and confidante.  
So, imagine my surprise when he starts to yell when I asked him about the possible truce arrangement.  
“You think I’m going to bow to those rebels?” he seethes. Alright, his tone isn’t quite yelling, but it feels like it, especially since he’s only been known to use that tone when he’s far too angry to express it.  
“I’m not asking you to bow your head and surrender, I’m asking you to talk about it, in neutral territory, to arrange a temporary truce so I can save the world,” I explain, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. Legate Rikke, a close friend as well, is mulling over the decision with a bottle of ale, thinking quietly.  
Tullius bangs his fist on the table, irate within five minutes of hearing it. “The Emperor won’t like it, I don’t like it, and the Thalmor definitely will despise it!”  
I seize the opportunity. “Yes, they will. Owing their world due to a daring move made by the joint decision of both factions of Skyrim’s civil war, demonstrating how capable both leaderships are. Imagine how it’ll feel to wipe those smug looks off their faces, when they realize that this is the first step in the direction of reuniting the Empire and bringing the Aldmeri Dominion to their knees once again.”  
He pauses, thinking about it. After a few moments, he nods his head. “If it works out, it’d be a fantastic success….. And it would deal a blow to the elves…”  
“And if it doesn’t, you can say you’ve tried to work things out with the rebels, gaining the respect of practically everyone in Skyrim for looking into all sides of the conflict,” Rikke points out. “We Nords dislike talking, but when it’s for peace in a war that’s been dragging on? We won’t mind it.”  
“It’s agreed, then. We’ll go to the truce talks, but I’m not sure if we can come to an agreement with those dastardly rebels,” Tullius states his decision decisively.  
“Thank you, sir. The Greybeards would be happy to host the delegations at High Hrothgar, at the Throat of the World. I’ll go ask Ulfric,” I say, the action already distasteful, but turn around, ready to exit Castle Dour.  
“Legate?”  
“Hmm?” I look over my shoulder at Tullius again, whose expression is more… guarded, than before.  
“Watch out for yourself. You being Dragonborn will probably make Ulfric covet you…. I don’t think he’ll just ask for territory in the negotiations.” his voice sounds….. Sad. Regretful.  
I nod, replying, “Thanks for the advice. I’ll… I’ll keep it in mind.”  
I turn back around, exiting the Castle and center of Imperial power in Skyrim.  
But I leave confused. What was Tullius warning me about?

Musing silently to myself, I get down to Katla’s Farm, saddling my horse, Swifter. Not a particularly creative name, I’ll grant you, but it’s fairly accurate. She’s been fed and watered by the helpful woman who owns what serves as Solitude’s stables, and I carefully groom out any tangles in her coat before I put on her tack.  
“There there, girl,” I say softly, affectionately patting her nose, while leading her out of the stable. It might be about 4 in the morning, but it’s a long trip to Windhelm, and I don’t like to prolong them. Eastmarch is cold, as is most of Skyrim, but it’s a bitter, harsh cold, one where the wind can steal your warmth in a single gust.  
I climb onto her back, settling in, and making sure my cloak and pack are both securely fastened. With a light touch of my feet to her sides, Swifter moves smoothly forward, starting at a smart walk. I turn us off the farm, then onto the main road, moving away from Solitude. In a little while, she’ll start trotting, but a walk is good for now.  
“Well, Swifter, we’ve got quite a quest in front of us,” I mumble to my horse, who tosses her head in response. Or I’m just personifying my horse. Either way, it’s not a terribly good sign that I’m already talking to my horse.  
Hey, if I’m gonna save the world, might as well.

I open the doors to Windhelm, Swifter safely stashed at the Windhelm stables. The first time I walked into Windhelm, I almost beat a man to death with my bare hands. He, and another man, were harassing a Dunmer woman. Rather than try and talk to them, I just did what a Nord would do. I beat them up.  
Seemed sensible at the time, and the guy thought so too. He’s still racist, but not as vocal about it. At least they get some rest in the Gray Quarter. No drunk Nords wandering around yelling about their race.  
Regrettably, this visit was not one that I could merely stop by the inn and some shops in the morning to sell off loot gained in an ancient Nord crypt.  
This time I had to meet a man whose ideals I hated beyond measure. It doesn’t matter what he’s actually like; if he’s anything like the slurs that are said about him, I’ll kill him myself. One derogatory comment in the negotiations……  
I draw myself up as I walk to the palace, determined, yet shivering from the cold. Why was Windhelm like this? Not only their weather, but their people…… All cold.  
The guards say nothing as I open the door to the Palace of Kings, and I enter, shutting the door behind me firmly. The warmth, at least, is welcome.  
A few people look up as I enter, eying me with some interest before going back to their meal. A long table is in the middle of the hall, conveniently focusing the point of power around the throne while also creating a barrier against any potential attacks on the Jarl. Smart.  
“Can I help you?” says someone, standing from the table and dusting himself off, approaching me. And judging me from my elven features almost instantly, a curl of dislike adding itself to his lips.  
“I wish to speak with Jarl Ulfric.” I state, figuring that it’s best to get this over with.  
“I’m the Steward, Jorleif. You can tell me what you need to tell the Jarl,” he says snidely, and I have no doubt in my mind that he won’t pass on my message, not even if I tell him I am who I am.  
“I said, I will speak to Ulfric, not to his pet steward.” I seethe at the man, the horrid cold and the foul weather already grating on my nerves. But this? I’m not going to be an innocent woman if this keeps up.  
“The Jarl is busy. You can tell me, or you can get out.”  
“Oh, okay. Go tell your Jarl that the Dragonborn wants to speak with him, and if he’s not out here in one minute, I’m going to Shout this palace down.” I smile sweetly at the man, acting as innocent as a maid.  
“Pfft. Like an elf is Dragonborn,” he scoffs, but I see a flicker of doubt in his eyes.  
I stare at him for a moment, draw in a breath, and chuckle. “Go get your master, pet, before I get angry.”  
Jorleif’s eyes blaze with anger. “I am not going to be ordered around by a Thalmor spy!”  
“FUS RO DAH!” I Shout him into the wall, tired of this. “Does that prove I’m Dragonborn, or do you need to be set on fire?”  
He scrambles up, eyes wide with terror, and he runs into the other room, the door flying open as he almost tackles it in his haste to talk to Ulfric.  
A mumbled discussion happens in the room, growing louder, until Ulfric himself, accompanied by Jorleif and, what’s his name…. The Jarl’s housecarl. Galar? Gallant?  
Whatever. Something or other, something like that.  
“Dragonborn?” Ulfric asks, and I look at him evenly. He’s not unattractive, but the knowledge of what he’s done isn’t exactly going to sway me anytime soon. “This is a surprise. Come to join the fight against the Empire, is it?”  
“No. I need to kill Alduin, and the only way to do that is to arrange a truce between you and the Empire. It wouldn’t have to be permanent, you can keep fighting when Alduin’s dead, but…. Will you go to the truce talks or not?”  
“After you terrified my steward, that’s all you have to say for yourself?” he raises an eyebrow, Jorleif shaking like a leaf beside him.  
“Your steward is an incompetent arse who didn’t believe the Dragonborn could be someone other than a Nord. Now, will you come to the talks or not.” I grit my teeth, trying to maintain control over my voice. If I didn’t…. I might actually bring down the palace, unintentionally. It would be immensely satisfying, though.  
“Where is it?” Ulfric folds his arms over his chest, his eyes sweeping my figure, trying to figure me out already.  
“High Hrothgar. You can say hello to Arngeir again.”  
“Has Tullius agreed to it?” while his housecarl beside him looks angrier and angrier by the minute.  
“Yes.” My answer is short and clipped, like my patience.  
“Very well. There is no harm in talking it out, I suppose. But no Thalmor.”  
“I don’t have any control over that, Ulfric. Just because you don’t like an enemy in the ring doesn’t mean they’re just going to throw down their weapons.” I spit out, turning sharply and walking away from the conversation.  
“Dragonborn. Next time you Shout at my steward, I won’t be so forgiving.” Ulfric mentions, his voice carrying relatively well in the hall. It’s rather echoey.

“I hope there never will be a next time.” I throw back, not even bothering to slow my pace or look at him.  
The man next to Ulfric grumbles something to him, but I’m not close enough to catch it, even if I wanted to.  
Now to get to High Hrothgar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tullius has no official first name, so I found one using a random name generator that kind of suits him.

I leave Swifter in the care of Temba Wide-Arm, the horse happily munching on some hay in the small, fenced-off area of her mill. I think I’ll give Swifter to her. She’s been meaning to get a horse, so she can bring in more wood than just around Ivarstead. I doubt I’ll be using Swifter anytime soon, not after today.  
Besides, the path is too steep for a horse’s hooves. Slipping and falling, breaking bones…. It’s a very real possibility for a horse on this path. And a human, for that matter. Any manner of beings.  
Taking a deep breath, I start the climb to High Hrothgar, not terribly eager for these negotiations to start, but also wanting them done with already.  
As I climb, I think. What could Tullius have meant? What else would Ulfric want, besides land? Holds, keeps, that’s what he wants. What both sides want, so this war is over. The truce is temporary, no doubt- just another way to gain a foothold for when the fighting resumes.  
I pull my cloak around me tighter, shivering already, even though I’m still fairly close to Ivarstead, only just out of view of the small village. I suspect it’ll be preferable to the negotiations inside, even with a fire blazing. Frosty people make for cold conversations.  
But, more seriously, the only thing that could really involve me in the negotiations would be if one of the sides asked me to demolish another city with a dragon. Why do Nords always think I can control dragons? My entire trap and plan to save the world hinges on my ability to perform two Shouts, one of which is a moral dilemma, forcing a dragon to experience mortality, even temporarily, and the other, I don’t even know yet! Or know if anyone knows how to summon a dragon itself. I doubt Paarthurnax will assist me this deeply. After all, Alduin is his brother.  
Another cold wind blows, stalling my progress as I brace myself against it. No wolves tonight- must be too cold, even for them.  
Unfortunately, I’m going somewhere colder.

The door to High Hrothgar creaks open, the giant set of doors ominously groaning as I push on them. They’re solid, hard to open usually, but I had some help, courtesy of the wind.  
“Ah, Dragonborn. So good of you to come,” Arngeir states, a little upset by the treaty negotiations that will inevitably crumble, but overall sincere.  
“Arngeir. It’s nice to be back here. I’m…. I’m sorry that I had to bring the war here. I…. I thought it might help to have neutral ground, uninvolved in the war in any capacity.” I bite my lip, a little nervous myself. I know how dedicated to peace the Greybeards are. They haven’t been involved in a war in…. Eras, at the very least.  
Arngeir bows his head. “I am glad that you did. It is not often that we get to end a war, nor see a Dragonborn bring peace to the world.”  
I smile at the old man, his hope a tad infectious. “Thank you for your faith, Arngeir.”  
“It is my pleasure, Dragonborn.” he replies, bowing his head. “It was an honor to teach you, even a little bit. You have grown much since we first found you, it is astounding. But, a word of advice, Dragonborn, if I may….”  
I nod my head for him to continue, curious.  
“Do not take the Words of Power for Dragonrend into your self. It is a dangerous path to travel, to begin hating the dragons for their very nature, that they cannot help.”  
“That is…. Good advice, Arngeir. I hope that after this is over, I will be able to apply it,” I speak, thinking aloud.  
He nods. “We might wish to proceed to the negotiation table soon. I fear that the two sides may start a fight even in these ancient halls.”  
We start the tragically short journey across the room, and I smirk. “That bad?”  
He sighs. “You have your work cut out for you, Dragonborn. I do not know if they can even agree to a temporary truce.”  
“They had better, or I cannot save this world. Why they can’t be grown adults and do this themselves….” I trail off, the conference room looming before us. I can already feel a headache starting to form.  
“Let’s get this over with.”

The delegates stand behind their seats, waiting for Arngeir and myself to enter the room, it seems. All eyes are on me as I walk towards my seat, opposite Arngeir, and the only one without someone hovering behind it in apprehension.  
Arngeir clears his throat, and speaks, “If everyone will please take their seats, we can begin the negotiations. I must remind you all, though, that the fate of the world hinges on whether or not you can be civilized long enough to cease your pointless war. If the Dragonborn cannot defeat Alduin, you will all be dead before you can point another arrow at each other. Keeping that thought in mind, let us begin.”  
I take my own seat, as the delegates from the Imperial side do the same, the Blades sitting, after hesitating for a moment.  
My eyes drift along the room, taking it in. I haven’t spent as much time at High Hrothgar as I would like…. It’s so peaceful, detached, here. The Greybeards welcomed me when I first came, and I do not know the Way of the Voice as much as I could….  
“We won’t negotiate with a Thalmor spy in our midst,” snarls Galmar Stone-Fist, still standing behind his chair.  
I startle, remembering what’s happening, and hoping that he’s not talking about me. Why would he, though…?  
“You can’t decide who we can bring to the negotiating tables, Galmar,” Rikke states, hackles rising.  
Elenwen speaks up. “It is my duty, as the head Thalmor delegate in Skyrim, to make sure that any treaty decided here does not violate the White-Gold Concordat. Other than that, there is no reason for me to be here.”  
“Either she goes, or we do,” Ulfric finally speaks, folding his arms in a resolute stance.  
“Perhaps the Dragonborn should decide,” Arngeir brings up, eyes pleading with me. This cannot end before it begins.  
I sigh, as everyone’s attention goes to me. “Jarl Elisif, are you familiar with the terms of the White-Gold Concordat?”  
She startles, not expecting this question, or to be involved in any point in this, really. “Uh, yes. My husband went over it at length with me when he received word of it.”  
“So you could monitor for breaches of the Concordat while we negotiate this treaty, then?” I ask, hoping that she was competent enough to do so, and that she had a good memory. If this went south…..  
She hesitates, then nods. “I remember it clearly enough.”  
“Well, then, Elenwen, if you would be so kind….” I indicate the door, and she stands, frowning a bit. It’s not every day that you’re dismissed from a negotiation table that could mean the end of a war by your…. Own kin.  
“Fine. But I expect General Tullius, and yourself, to uphold the Concordat, along with Jarl Elisif.” she huffs, then exits.  
Delphine, from the other side of the table, mumbles, “Good riddance.”  
I turn my head to look at her. “On that note, Delphine, if you would be so kind as to follow her.”  
“What?” she exclaims, a few notes down from an awkward squawk. “Why?”  
“Because Esbern has some reason to be here, as a master of Dragon lore, but you have nothing to offer here.” I explain, irritation rising.  
“I offer the services of the Blades,” she starts, but I interrupt.  
“Yes, but the Blades consists of two people. Both of you are here, and yet, only one of you has useful information pertaining to the problem at hand. Please join Elenwen and walk out before you force me to throw you out.”  
She pouts angrily, but gets up anyway, obeying me, for once.  
Esbern watches her go without protest, and I’m grateful. I like the paranoid old man, just not the overconfident and suspicious Breton.  
“Now that that’s settled, Jarl Ulfric, Galmar, would you kindly take your seats?” Arngeir asks of them, and this time, they comply.  
“Very well, may we begin? The truce the Dragonborn needs does not have to be temporary, but it may be, if you cannot put your arms up for more than she requires,” Arngeir continues, explaining the situation. “But, also, I would appreciate that both sides of this conflict would remember that lives are at stake, not merely territory and ideals.”  
Galmar growled. “We remember that. Every Nord in the Stormcloak army is a hero to both his nation and his ancestors!”  
“And yet you started this slaughter of a war…” Rikke trails off, glaring at Galmar.  
“We know the names of every soldier in our ranks. Can you say the same, General?” Ulfric chimes in, staring at the man evenly. A hard earned respect is in that gaze. Grudging, but it’s there.  
“Go ahead and make your first demand then. I’m sure it’ll be as unreasonable as you!” Elisif bursts out, seething. Maybe Elenwen should have stayed….. Can Elisif hold herself together for this? She is seated across from the man who murdered her husband, after all.  
“We want Markarth handed over to us. We’ll put Thongvar Silver-Blood as Jarl to keep the city running.” Ulfric states, the term not up for debate.  
“To soak up all the silver there, eh? We’ll take Riften and it’s hold, then.” Tullius counters.  
“You are not taking the Stronghold that is the Rift from Stormcloak hands!” Galmar bangs his fist on the table, growling out his sentence.  
“Then you won’t be taking the Reach!” Rikke spits out. Her fiery blood is always close to boiling….  
“Perhaps the Dragonborn should decide….” Arngeir winces at the loud noises, and I’m sure the other Greybeards don’t appreciate them either. High Hrothgar is supposed to be quiet, peaceful, made for meditation.  
“If the Jarl Ulfric is set on having Markarth and the Reach, then Tullius and the Imperials must have the Rift, and it’s capital.” I decide, feeling an admiring look from Tullius, and a scowl from Galmar, and….. Ulfric’s eyes?  
My own gaze catches his, and he looks away, choosing to glare at Tullius once more.  
“Even if we’re given the Reach, we won’t give up the Rift.” Ulfric says, his lip curling as he looks at Tullius.  
“This is an outrage!” Elisif cries out, her anger rising fast. “General, you cannot possibly think about agreeing to this!”  
“Jarl Elisif, I’ll handle this.” Tullius growls out, and the petite Jarl shuts down a little bit, though it’s not difficult to tell that she’s fuming.  
“She’s right, though. We won’t give you something for nothing.” Rikke states, looking at Ulfric.  
“We’ll be giving you a truce, and, eventually, freedom from Thalmor and Imperial control alike,” the Jarl of Windhelm states, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  
“How dare you!” Elisif bursts out, nearing the end of her patience already. Not even twenty minutes in. “First you murder my husband, and then you decide that you can be crowned High King without even a Moot to convene it? Your arrogance knows no bounds!”  
Galmar growls again, looking at the Jarl and opens his mouth to say something, before Esbern stands, shouting for attention.  
“Is this all this is? A territory swap? People, please! You must agree to a truce! Do you not understand? Do you not see? How can you not know the danger we are in, the danger we are all in, Imperial, Thalmor, Stormcloak, Elves, Beasts, Humans, alike? The souls of the dead, the ones that you are adding to in astronomical amounts every time your armies cross paths, they are feeding Alduin and his power! You are helping him to heal every time he clashes with the Dragonborn, and you are so caught up in your own petty fight over territory that you cannot agree upon even a simple truce to keep your world alive?”  
The room falls quiet, and I thank the Gods above that Esbern is still here.  
“... Very well. The Rift for the Reach.” Ulfric concedes, and Tullius nods.  
“Agreed.”  
“Is that all?” Arngeir asks, in the hope that it is, truly, over.  
“No, not yet. We want compensation for the massacre at Karthwasten.” Rikke starts, fired up. She knew some of the people there… Losing a friend or two is always difficult, but when the responsible party won’t own up? Even tougher.  
“We did no such thing!” Galmar defends, banging his fist on the table yet again.  
“You slaughtered the very people you claim to protect, the ones you claim to fight for!” Rikke shouts, and Ulfric flinches a tiny bit.  
“Dragonborn, should there be a compensatory pay given to the Imperials for the massacre at Karthwasten?” Arngeir asks, and I consider it.  
“Of course. A massacre and a waste of lives, particularly innocents, must be paid for. Since you will not offer your own lives, then gold will do, I suppose.” I say, trying to be somewhat diplomatic.  
“There is no proof that there was a massacre caused by us! For all we know, it was you Imperial dogs!” Galmar snarls, ignoring my statement.  
“Shift the blame onto us, of course you do! Like the cowards you are!” Elisif yells at them.  
I toss my arms up in the air lightly. “Why am I here if no one will listen to what I say?” I mutter to myself, exasperated.  
“This treaty is unacceptable! If you Stormcloaks would pull your heads out of the snow, you’d see that a united Empire is better for everyone!” Rikke shouts, standing now. Her outrage is practically palatable.  
“Like we’d bow to those stuck up elves! You’re nothing but their slaves, waiting on your masters day and night!” Galmar yells, standing up and looking like he’s almost ready to draw his weapon.  
“We won’t stay here and be insulted!” Elisif declares, standing with Rikke, both of them looking murderous at Galmar and his Jarl.  
“Elisif, Rikke, stand down.” Tullius growls out, but the duo don’t listen to him, instead shouting at Galmar, who roars back, equally loud.  
I sigh, fed up with this. I stand, and Shout, “Tiid!”  
Everyone startles. Tullius, because he never thought I’d use a Shout on him, Arngeir and Galmar, because he’s never heard that Rotmulaag before, Elisif and Rikke, because they’ve never heard a Thu’um before, likely, and Ulfric, who seems to doubt that I’m Dragonborn.  
The world resumes it’s normal time flow.  
“The next person who interrupts anyone is going to die, by my hands,” I state, still standing, my hands steady on the table. “We will all sit down, and calmly discuss the terms of the treaty, because if we do not, the world will end, and then this entire painful experience will not matter in the slightest. Now, does anyone have anything to say about the treaty as it stands currently?”  
Ulfric clears his throat. “I cannot accept this treaty.”  
Tullius shakes his head, Elisif seething beside him. “Nor I.”  
He, at least, has the decency to look bashful about it.  
“Then does anyone have a possible solution?” Arngeir asks, as exasperated as I am.  
The room is silent, as the sides think about it.  
“I have a plan,” Ulfric states.  
“Then what, in Kynareth’s name, is it?” Esbern asks, united with Arngeir and myself in exhaustion of this meeting.  
“The Stormcloak rebel cause will permanently lay down their arms. In exchange, I will become High King of Skyrim, and the terms of the White-Gold Concordat will be renegotiated.” Ulfric casually says, as his eyes flicker around the table of faces.  
Elisif, Tullius, and Rikke all sputter, Tullius turning red in the face, as Rikke stands and starts yelling obscenities at him, while Elisif glares murderously at her fellow Jarl, so astounded she cannot summon the words to express her rage accurately.  
Arngeir sighs, then speaks, “Ulfric, you know that those terms are impossible to meet.”  
Esbern follows this by asking, in a quiet tone, “Is everyone in charge of something always this unreasonable?”  
Galmar growls out a warning to the loremaster, then turns to his Jarl. Even he knows it’s a bit…. Much.  
“What do you think of his proposal, Dragonborn?” Arngeir asks, hoping that they’ll remember why they’re all here, with me. To discuss halting the war to save the world.  
“It is unreasonable. The Thalmor would never agree to renegotiate the treaty, and it’s doubtful that they would accept you as High King of Skyrim,” I say, and for once, the room quiets and listens. Well, it’s not the first time, but it feels like it.  
Ulfric nods, looking thoughtful. Uncommon for a Nord… and for Ulfric, who seems to think with his heart and not his brain.  
I don’t trust it.  
“I have one more thought…..” he starts, and a small smirk plays on his features for a moment before disappearing again.  
Now I really don’t trust him.  
“If the Dragonborn were to approve, then the Stormcloak cause would still lay down their arms, permanently, and accept Imperial rule. The Thalmor presence in Skyrim would be diminished to only the Embassy, and the seat of the High King.” Ulfric examines his nails casually, waiting for something.  
But what?  
“And would you become the High King, then?” Jarl Elisif asks, while Rikke bites the inside of her cheek to keep from commenting. Tullius looks… introspective, but, suspicious.  
“No. That is still for the Moot to decide.”  
“Then what is your price for this generous proposal?” Esbern asks, curiosity lighting his eyes.  
“The Dragonborn.” Ulfric answers, looking at me.  
A few moments of silence pass, and then my brain processes what was just said.  
“What?” I ask Ulfric, positive I misheard everything he just said.  
“I would wed you, and you would stand by my side, as the Lady of Windhelm.” he answers promptly, a bit of mirth hidden in his eyes.  
He’s won.  
Because time is running out, and an entire end to this war… countless lives saved….. The empire united once more….. A diminished Thalmor presence…… and Alduin killed. Hopefully.  
All for one very simple price.  
Me.  
I zone back in, and find Tullius, Rikke, and Elisif, all yelling at Ulfric and Galmar at the top of their lungs. Esbern sits back, shrugging, knowing it’s the best deal we could possibly get. But Arngeir…..  
He looks positively murderous. Which is saying a lot about a man who has devoted his entire life to the Way of the Voice, Shouting only in Kynareth’s glory.  
I sigh, closing my eyes, and think about it once more. One price for peace, freedom, and a truce. All I wanted and much more.  
But is it worth it?  
I’m still considering it, the room is still chaotic, but Arngeir’s voice still processes in my head clearly.  
“Dragonborn, before you tell us your decision, might I speak with you?” Arngeir asks, and when I open my eyes, he’s next to me.  
I nod, standing, and letting him lead me to the outer rim of the monastery, windows facing the blizzard outside, though it’s dying down easily enough. A meditation mat is on the floor, in front of us, but I sit on the window ledge, feeling the cold edge invigorate me and jolt me awake a little.  
“Dragonborn, I…. I am sorry, but….”  
“You think I should accept the proposal,” I state, and Arngeir nods, hesitating just a tad.  
I sigh. “And why wouldn’t I? It means an end to the war, an illustrious position after all this, the truce I originally wanted….. But I…. I give everyone else their freedom, their lives back, and what do I get? I get chains. Chains that I cannot break without some sort of death happening. Perhaps…. Perhaps you were right, Arngeir. Perhaps the World-Eater should be allowed to devour this world. Perhaps the next one will be better.”  
“And perhaps it will be the same. We all make choices, Dragonborn. Ulfric chose to dishonor the Way of the Voice when he killed High King Torygg with it. He chose to dishonor the Empire he fought for by starting a rebellion that is, and was, doomed to failure. He chose to dishonor himself when he asked for you as his price. You will not be happy, I fear, with that man. But, if you truly wish to stop Alduin… you are the only one who can. And this is the price,” Arngeir says, sorrow tinging his voice. “But, should you ever choose to return to High Hrothgar, our doors shall never be closed to you.”  
I smiled sadly at him. “Thank you, Arngeir. That… that helps a little.”  
He smiles, almost chuckling, although that is horribly dangerous.  
“I’ve made up my mind.”

We return to the conference room, finding almost the same state of affairs as when we left, although it looks like Rikke might try and fist fight Galmar at the first opportunity, Elisif is screaming herself hoarse, and Tullius is glaring at Ulfric, who is merely lounging in his chair, smug as a duck. Esbern seems to be trying to control the situation, but he can’t quite manage it.  
Arngeir clears his throat, and says, simply, “Enough.”  
The room quiets immediately, the calming aura he radiates forcing everyone to relax.  
“The Dragonborn has come to a decision.”  
Ulfric smiles, not sitting up for even a moment. He knows. He knows he made an offer that no one could refuse, not now.  
I walk to my seat slowly, enjoying my last few moments of pure freedom before I formally present myself for the golden shackles to capture my wrists and bind me for all eternity to this man.  
I don’t take the seat, though, instead standing behind it and clasping it in my hands, as if I’m afraid that if I do not, my fury will make me lash out at the smug man sitting down, predatory eyes leering at me.  
My eyes close for a moment, and I sigh, then open my mouth, eyes staring straight ahead, over Arngeir’s head. I can’t bear to look at anyone right now.  
“Those terms are…. Acceptable.” I spit out the word, wondering if I can have Ulfric murdered before this truly comes to pass.  
Elisif and Rikke give gasps of shock, genuinely thinking that I wouldn’t- couldn’t- bear to be married to that animal, and Galmar thumps Ulfric on the back, chuckling and grinning. The man himself is smirking smugly at me, standing.  
“Since we have come to an agreement, the council is…..” Arngeir’s voice falters, his emotions clouding his control for the moment. “The council is adjourned.”  
Ulfric strolls up to me, eying me up and down. “I’ll make all the arrangements. Do not worry about it.” he moves off, Galmar following.  
“Oh, and wear something nice for the wedding, won’t you?” he asks, shouting it without even turning around as he exits the room.  
Esbern stands, pulling out a book and showing a passage to me. “If you call this in Dragonsreach, he will likely come, and then you can trap him, find out where Alduin’s base is, and kill the World-Eater.”  
I nod my head. Simple. Simple directions. I can do that.  
Esbern nods once more, then leaves the room, walking out of the monastery swiftly.  
Rikke and Elisif pat me on the back, unsure of what else to do, and move to the foyer. Arngeir already said his piece, and walks out, back to his meditations.  
Tullius and I are the only ones in the room left.  
“That…. It’s a noble thing you did, Korina. I…. I’m sorry.” he says, getting up out of his seat and walking towards me. “We can break the truce after this… Alduin is taken care of. Wipe Ulfric off the face of Nirn.”  
“Thank you, Tullius.”  
“Legate, your sacrifice has more than earned my respect. Call me Reinald.” He smiles sadly at me, and fiddles with something in his hand. “I was going to give this to you when this was over, if you exceeded your duty, but…. You have done so much more than that. I know it’s no way to compensate you for your loss of freedom, but….”  
He swung it around, brushing off a flap of leather that was concealing it. A handle.  
Hesitantly, I reach out, gripping it firmly, and pull it from the wrapping. It’s still in it’s scabbard, but I remove it and lay that on the table as I examine the blade.  
“It’s beautiful…” I breathe, looking at it in wonder. The Elven blade sings through the air as I give it a few experimental strokes.  
Tullius- Reinald chuckles at my wonder. “I hope it suits you. It’s reinforced with steel, a one of a kind blade.”  
“So it’s like me? Half Elven, half human?” I smile at him, and he shrugs his shoulders, at ease with me.  
“I suppose it is. And I’ll be bringing this diplomatic issue to the Emperor personally. I’ll let him know that you deserve to be promoted, at the very least.” his smile dies quickly, thinking back to reality.  
Mine does, too. “Will I still be allowed to be in the Legion, even if I’m to be married to the leader of the rebellion? Nothing was signed. No one but us here knows about this.”  
“Ulfric wants you for your power and your title, Korina. I don’t think he’ll let you slip through his fingers when he’s so close to legitimizing a claim on High King.”  
I sheathe the sword, buckling the belt around my waist so it hangs, easy to reach.  
“If he thinks he can use me, he’ll have another thing coming.” I mutter darkly, and I exit the room, pulling the hood of my cloak up. I have a dragon to catch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Korina's expressing self pity because who wouldn't, if you were in this situation.

I journey back to Whiterun with Jarl Balgruuf. A combination of both not wanting to walk that far by myself, and wanting to save time. For the first few minutes, he simply stares at me, something in his gaze changed, thanks to my decision.  
“Dragonborn… what you did back there…” he shakes his head in disbelief. “I doubt that a soul in Skyrim won’t respect you for this. I’ll make sure of it.”  
“Korina,” I mutter. “My name is Korina.”  
Balgruuf nods, patting my arm with his hand lightly. “Of course, Korina. They’ll know your name from Haafingar to Winterhold.”  
“Do you think any of them will feel guilty about it? About letting this war drag on so long they had to get a hero involved, one from legend and folklore, one that people doubted existed in the first place? Do you think that they’ll ever learn that I didn’t want this? Will they care?” I ask, eyes gazing off into the distance, but I’m looking at nothing. I only have this journey back to Whiterun to feel sorry for myself, I’ll make damn good use of it.  
“Dragonborn…..” Balgruuf starts, then stops, sighing. “Does it matter? They’ll be grateful to the hero who saved their lives, their homes, their children. Their world.”  
“And what of my life? My home? My world? It is all taken from me. Taken by a selfish Jarl who just wants to use me to further his claim on being Skyrim’s High King. Taken because he saw an opportunity and he took it. Taken because….. Because he cares nothing for others.” I slouch in my seat, the muscles in my shoulders and backs finally relaxing enough so that I can feel the weight of this.  
Balgruuf says nothing, considering my words.  
“Perhaps, in time, you will come to love him. If not love, then you may… appreciate him.” he offers amicably, as if we are old friends. “It is not ideal, but… aren’t the greatest heroes the unsung ones?”  
He tries to crack a smile, but it falls off his face when he sees my still glum mood.  
“No. I will be a hero that everyone knows, everyone can name and point to. They’ll sing songs about me and my valor against Alduin, and they’ll admire my bravery against the dragon menace. But they won’t ever sing about how I gave my freedom so that the people of Nirn could live their lives, could have their children grow up before their eyes. Is that a fair trade-off, Balgruuf? I get to have my name go down in history as one of the greatest heroes ever, but my name will forever be linked with Ulfric, who hates half of my heritage, who despises the fact that he’s not me, who is repulsed by magic in almost any form. I get nothing from this deal besides misery, while everyone around me gets so much more. Is that a fair point, Balgruuf? Do you actually believe that there is a single part of me that is happy about this? I will never come to love him, I will never come to appreciate him. I will never allow him to touch me, yet he will claim my title for his own gain, binding me to him for eternity and beyond.” I drew in a shaky breath, tears stinging my eyes as reality sunk in, bit by bit.  
“I have chains waiting for me, when I return from defeating Alduin. The rest of the world is freed from them.” I close my eyes, trying to block everything else out.  
Balgruuf opens his mouth to say something, but stops. Good. I don’t want anything to touch me right now. Not people, not pity, not emotions.  
I have a duty to save the world. Might as well do it.

“Are you sure this will work, Dragonborn?” a guard asks me, and I shrug, fixing my Glass armor boot.  
“Hard to tell. It hasn’t been used in, what, three, four Eras? Who can say?” I say, and smirk a bit when I see the guards around us shiver in fear.  
Farengar approaches, clearing his throat to announce his presence. “Dragonborn, the trap is fully prepared for trapping the dragon. Additionally, would you mind if I performed a few experiments on the dragon, while it is trapped?”  
I frown, standing up from my kneeling position. “I don’t think that the dragon will be here for long enough. Arngeir said he would be likely to answer the call, but there’s no telling if he’ll even stick around long enough for the trap to work. And, once he lands and we do trap him, I imagine that he’ll want to be gone as quickly as he can, even if it means flying me to Alduin’s hideout.”  
“Besides, Farengar, if the dragon doesn’t wish for you to do so, then you shouldn’t. Dragons might be attacking, but that does not mean that they are evil and have no right to their person.” I add, shaking my head at Farengar’s disappointed look.  
“But we could use it to devise a more efficient means to kill them!”  
“Farengar, enough.” Balgruuf joins the conversation. The court mage immediately halts, looking meekly at the ground and shrinking in on himself a bit. “You are here as a means of support to my guard, and to Irileth, and, of course, our friend here.”  
“Yes, Jarl Balgruuf.” Farengar states, obeying the man who kept him fed and clothed.  
Amazing what power can do.  
“Well, Dragonborn? Do you think this will work?” Balgruuf crosses his arms over his chest, still hostile to this entire proposition.  
“It has to. If it doesn’t….” I don’t need to finish my thought to him. He already heard my self-pitying rant on the journey back here.  
He nods, understanding. “Whenever you’re ready, summon the dragon. My guard will stand by you no matter what.”  
I nod, smiling a bit at him. He’s been a helpful ally during this whole thing. I’m grateful.  
I walk, steady yet slow, to the balcony of the Keep, and draw in a breath. Releasing it, I Shout out the three words, combined into a name. “ODAHVIING!”  
For a few minutes, nothing happens. I’m about to try again, when a guard near Irileth and I stops, saying something along the lines of, “Do you hear that?”  
Moments later he’s carried off in the dragon’s claws, released over the land and falling to his inevitable death.  
“By Azura!” Irileth shouts out, and draws her sword, scanning the skies as the guards all do the same, drawing weapons and muttering curses, not wanting to be anywhere near next.  
Calmly, I wait for Odahviing to present himself again, and make sure that he can see me. Quickly, I step back into the enclosed part of the keep, still in view of the skies and Odahviing himself.  
He’s supposed to be prideful….. But, then again, all dragons are.  
I take a few more steps back, and Odahviing makes another circle around the keep before coming in to land on the balcony. He ignores Irileth’s sharp stabs with her sword, merely brushing her off as casually as a fly, though he does so into a wall. She won’t be very happy about that….  
The guards all watch my apprehensively, scared to death of the dragon. I smirk, running backwards now, and Odahviing takes the bait, following me with ease, though not the previous grace he had in the air.  
“Dovahkiin, you are a Mey to think you can face Alduin!” he says, and I merely back up more. Only a few more steps for him……  
He chuckles, if a dragon can chuckle, and moves forward, opening his mouth to breath fire or frost….  
When the trap comes down on him, and his throat is forcibly constricted, the contraption effectively paralyzing him. I have never been so glad to have guards around.  
“What is this?” Odahviing cries out, finally understanding his predicament. “Dovahkiin!”  
“Odahviing, I’m sorry that I had to do this. But I need to get to Alduin, and I do not know where he is hiding,” I explain, a bit of desperation creeping into my voice.  
“Hmm. You know, many of the Dov have been questioning Alduin’s supremacy, his domination. If you defeat Alduin, it may be that the Dov will bow to the strength of your Thu’um,” he thinks out loud. Is it weird for a dragon to look thoughtful? Because he is…  
“What are you not telling me, Odahviing?” I ask, the nagging feeling that there’s a catch creeping up on me.  
“Alduin is at Skuldafn, high in the mountains of Keizaal. You will never reach it, Dovahkiin, without the wings of a Dov. You may have the Thu’um and the Sil of a Dov, but you are not one of us,” Odahviing replies smugly.  
I grit my teeth, letting out a huff of hot air. Dragons. “You could take me there, though.”  
Odahviing seems surprised that I would suggest such a thing. “His lair is filled with protection. You will not reach him alive. If you bow to his Thu’um now, he may spare you for the next world.”  
“I will never bow to him.” I shake my head. “But, Odahviing, you forget. Only my word prevents all these guards, all these people, who Alduin thinks beneath him, and beneath all the Dov, from killing you. You are helpless. Recognize the strength of my Thu’um, and take me to Skuldafn. After I am safely delivered there, you will be free to go and serve whomever you choose, be it myself, Alduin, or no one but your own desires. I give you my word.”  
Odahviing draws his head back, as little as he can, and considers the offer. My eyes glance around the room, though I don't turn from Odahviing for a moment.  
In the corner of my eyes, I see Farengar, looking more excited than ever, Irileth focusing solely on my exchange with the dragon, and all the guards staring at us, fingers gripping their weapons tightly.  
Odahviing calls my attention to his winged self again. “Very well, Dovahkiin. Part of the reason I came to your call was to see if your Thu’um was stronger than the World-Eater’s. I no longer serve him, but instead, you. Your Voice is as strong as his, if not stronger. Zol mul. I will fly you to Skuldafn, safely.”  
I nod, after a moment. Dragons do not lie- and I can feel Odahviing’s truth in my Sil.  
“Release him.” I call out, not turning from Odahviing.  
“What?!?” Irileth, for one, asks, startled beyond measure.  
“You heard me. Release him.”  
The guards hesitate, the ones at the levers to raise the trap.  
I whip my head around to them, glaring, and they gulp. “Do it.”  
They obey, finally.  
Ironically, the Dov seem to follow my voice more than mortals.  
Odahviing stretches as the trap is released- it must have been painful. “Ah, freedom!”  
“Now, Dovahkiin, Bo with me. Let your Sil know what it is missing, as a Joor.” Odahviing turns around as he talks, the guards scattering like snowflakes in a strong wind.  
“Dragonborn, are you sure this is a good idea?” Balgruuf asks me, standing off to the side, somewhat behind Irileth, whose eyes have not left Odahviing.  
Hey, even dragon’s tails are dangerous.  
“No, but what about this entire plan was a good idea?” I respond, checking my armor and weapons for any flaws that I could see. I doubt that I can duck back into town for supplies once I fly off on Odahviing. This is the end stretch.  
The people outside with me all watch, as I approach Odahviing, the red-scaled dragon eager to be in the sky once more, where he belongs. I hesitate just a moment before climbing on his back, fiddling with my new sword that has yet to be tested. I should’ve brought my other one, but… I couldn’t. I don’t know why. Maybe because it feels like the strength of the legion is with me? Or at least my commander’s.  
Maybe it’s because it reminds me of the weight that will come with this outcome. I have all the lives in the world hanging on my shoulders. I doubt that that weight will clear up when this is over, though.  
Just a feeling.

Skuldafn is immense, sprawling, and- from just a quick peek at it on Odahviing, high in the air- well protected.  
“This won’t be easy, will it?” I ask the red dragon, who shakes his head.  
“No, Dovahkiin. That would defeat the purpose of Alduin hiding his lair, even if he is behaving like a Nikriin. A coward,” Odahviing answers, and I square my shoulders.  
“Thank you, Odahviing, for helping me here. Even if I don’t survive, and Alduin wins…. I wish you the best of luck.” I turn, facing him, and he considers this, before nodding once.  
“And to you, Dovahkiin. You will triumph. Your Thu’um is zol mul, stronger than Alduin’s. You will return from Sovngarde with his head.” He takes off before I can respond, confusion written across my features.  
I shake it off, turning to the sentinels guarding Alduin’s hide away. Time to save the world.

The Draugr are easily dispatched, though annoying, but the dragons are the problem. I don’t truly want to kill them, as I believe that they might be simply under Alduin’s sway… But they are attacking me.  
I duck behind a pillar as one breathes fire at me, and I hold my breath, terrified. This is, without a doubt, the most dangerous thing I have ever done. And I have no choice at this point. No choice, no help, no way but to push through.  
And these things are in the way of that objective.  
As soon as the dragon stops his assault, out of breath apparently, I dash out, firing an Ice spell at it, Wall of Frost, with my left hand, while my right swings the sword at it’s neck, hacking away at the scales as fast as I can, with as much power as I can muster.  
He snaps at me, but I dodge, feeling the heat from it’s recent Thu’um projection emanate from it’s body. The Voice tends to do that. Whenever I use Unrelenting Force, I’m more likely to be aggressive in battle, and with Whirlwind Sprint, I’m more likely to run from it. They have a lingering effect, surprisingly enough.  
The dragon catches my spell arm, though, teeth digging in and scraping as I slip away before it’s a solid grip and he can throw me around like a ragdoll. I barely feel it; the battle is taking up too much of my attention.  
I slip back behind the pillar again as he fires up another Shout, and breathes ice, this time, at me.  
It catches my injured arm, making me hiss in pain as it throbs unhelpfully. It can still do magic- but it won’t be pleasant. He tore into my muscle fairly deep, even with a light scrape. I sheathe my sword, inspecting the damage with my uninjured hand.  
He stops the Shout, and I whip around, Shouting myself, “Yol!”  
It startles him, at least a little bit, but only for a moment, baring his fangs and preparing to bite my form once more.  
I don’t give him the chance, instead sending a Lightning Strike his way, and another, and another, rapidly casting them with both hands. A few more hits….  
They all land, the dragon unable to stop them or get away. Giving a cry, he surges up, as if to escape the onslaught, but falters, slamming back down into the ground and sending stone fragments flying into the air. I’m far enough away that none hit me, but there’s still a reflex flinch that goes through me at that sound.  
The familiar process of consuming the soul of the dragon happens, the bones the only remainder of his life besides the knowledge that now resides in me.  
I know there are other dragons here. Maybe this will prove to them that I am no idle threat.  
And perhaps it will prove to them that they should join me, instead of following Alduin.  
I dislike such violence that could be avoided.  
Despite the wishes of the Nords, I don’t want the dragons to die. I just want them to settle down.  
With a leader like Alduin, how can they?  
But if I was leading them….  
Zol mul. I must prove it.

The last few dregs of the mortal world drain away, and my eyes behold the wonder that is Sovngarde.  
For a few moments, I’m stunned by the mere beauty and sheer amazement that I’m here, yet not dead.  
Come to think of it, why didn’t I just die and come here, once I learned Dragonrend? Wouldn’t that have been simpler?  
But the thoughts passes, and I glance around, seeing a great veil of mist. With a distracted spell in one hand, I heal my wounds from my fight with Nahkriin, the dragon priest who guarded the portal. He was a bit much, especially on my own. But I got here, and a good bit of loot from the temple. Why not take it, since this place is inaccessible to mortals, besides myself?  
My wounds heal, and I end the spell, trudging forward with a determination, but a certain… reluctance. If I died here, yes, the world would be doomed, but…. I wouldn’t be trapped. Just dead.  
There’s a certain beauty in that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess in celebration of the Women's March today.

I clear the mist from my path, Shouting, to reach Alduin, and the Hall of Valour. “Lok Vah Koor!”  
Part of me can’t really grasp that I’m here. Mother always told me that there was nothing in the Nordic mythos that was real… yet I am here. Standing. Shouting, in Sovngarde.  
Then again, she never said that I’d be Dragonborn, either, so. I suppose it’s to be expected.  
I clear the Skies a few more times, spying Alduin flying up after feeding on the souls of the dead occasionally.  
Once I don’t have to Shout anymore, I’m amazed at what I see.  
It’s so….. Beautiful….  
Hesitantly, I approach the bridge, only to be stopped, by a man. Why is he glowing?  
“Well, well, Dragonborn. I am Tsun, Shield-Thane to Shor. It has been a long time since an Elf has crossed into our realm. You do not normally follow the Nordic pantheon… But you are welcome here.” He grins at me, perhaps happy because of my purpose. He can only be a god to be here, and not be terrified of Alduin’s presence.  
“Then you know why I’m here,” I respond, uneasy about him. He’s a god, guarding a bridge… and Nordic culture is focused around battle and honor. I wouldn’t be surprised if I had to fight him to pass into the Hall of Valor.  
“Aye, that I do. But, Shor has decreed that only those who have passed a test of strength may proceed to the Hall.” he folds his arms across his chest.  
Huh, I’m right. Who would have thought.  
“By what right do you claim entry into the Hall of Valor?” he asks, trying to glower at me. It’s not really working, he looks far too happy for some reason….  
“By right of birth; I am Dragonborn,” I answer, feeling rather stupid. Who just declares this? Is this literally how Nord culture works?  
“It has been too long since I faced a hero, doom-driven by the Dovah Sos.” he smiles, and pulls his battle axe from his back, shifting into an attacking position. “Prove your worth to enter the Hall, as decreed by Shor.”  
With that, he attacks, running at me with his axe raised far above his head. I jump out of the way, a little appalled that I just went through an entire Temple of Draugr, battled a dragon priest, a dragon, and came to the realm of the Nordic dead, just to fight a god.  
I’m a little tired of this.  
I grit my teeth, raising my sword and slashing at him, catching his exposed side. Why is he only wearing half clothing?  
His blood sparkles like rubies in the ethereal light, and he turns so quickly I’m almost unable to block the blow, my sword coming up just in time. The blow sends shivers down my arms, my muscles screaming in protest already. I’ve only traded a single blow, and I already want to lay down my arms.  
But I can’t, because of this stupid dragon and stupid world-ending prophecy hanging over my head.  
So I push back, as my unoccupied hand brings out a Lightning spell. I always like to use it- no race has an inborn ability to resist it, like with fire or ice. I shock him, the spell playing along his skin and stinging his flesh.  
The annoyed look on his face only grows as the spell spreads, little sparks traveling across his torso and legs easily, feeding off of my magic. It feels…. Different here. More centered. Like I’m stronger.  
Tsun breaks my block, his ax slashing my arm and face, just inches from my throat. Is he actually trying to kill me? Is that a requirement here?  
I jump back, on instinct, and, without looking, I dodge Tsun’s next strike. I don’t let myself ponder how I knew to do that, not in a fight.  
My hand tingles, and I discharge a stronger spell at Tsun, the god charging at me, battle axe raised high above his head, a snarl audible. I back up more, almost tripping over my own feet to get a few more feet between us. If I hit him with enough magical energy behind the attack, he should be launched backwards…. Would that be enough, though?  
Doubtful.  
Nevertheless, I launch more shocking spells at him, eager to get this fight over with. I have a task to accomplish, and a realm to save. No god will stand in my way, not when I’m this close.  
Without thinking, my blade leaps forward, not blocking his own strike, which lands in my shoulder, but it rests against his neck, the edge of the metal ready to sever his head from his body.  
Blood spurts into the air between us, and I grimace, the pain thrusting my thoughts into higher focus. Slowly, I slide my blade along his neck, drawing a bit of golden blood from the cut. My face breaks into a grin, knowing that I’ve got him.  
Tsun swallows, and smiles at me. “I am glad to see that the Last Dragonborn is a warrior, although not as traditional as the Dragonborns past. You may pass to the Hall of Valor.”  
I look into his eyes, and can’t determine what I see there, but I pull my sword away from his neck without damaging him further, though I can’t sheathe it with my shoulder as it is.  
He yanks the ax out, and I wince a bit. What can I say, ax wounds hurt.  
The god returns to his station, arms crossed and ax once more strapped securely across his back. His gaze looks out at the misted valley that lead me here.  
I sit down on a small boulder, looking around as I start up a healing spell. My uninjured hand hovers over my injured flesh as it knits itself together seamlessly, only a small line scarring over.  
“Alduin grows stronger the longer you waste here, Dragonborn. You might wish to continue onwards,” Tsun advises me, and I growl back at him.  
“I’m not the one who sliced my shoulder open,” I remind him, and stand up, shrugging my slightly damaged armor over to cover the area once more. Fragments of glass were strewn about the area; it has a tendency to shatter with such extreme force, particularly when applied suddenly.  
He only chuckles in response, and I trudge forward, sword now sheathed at my side. It had been resting against the boulder while I healed myself, but now held it’s rightful position at my side.  
When I see the bridge, I sigh. “Why whale bones, I wonder. Why do Nords make everything so complicated? How can people walk on these things and not fall through?”  
I hear Tsun’s chuckle following me as I move across the bridge, sticking close to the middle. That would be the cruelest death; to die in Sovngarde, only moments away from saving the realm. Falling off a bridge, though, that’d just be sad.

Sovngarde is impressive, but the Hall of Valor…. It’s a bit lackluster, in my opinion. Although, I do see the merits of it. Nice open construction, the hall is warm, and the mead seems to be ever-flowing. More akin to a warrior’s culture, I suppose, so it’s fitting.  
“Hail, friend!” a voice calls to my left, and I turn, curious.  
“Is this your first journey to the Hall of Valor?” the man continues, chuckling. “But of course. I am Ysgramor, the founder of the Companions. We have had no new arrivals since the World-Eater laid his soul-snare. Shor forbid us from going out and battling against the dragon- perhaps he had some insight into your very arrival.”  
“Shor…?” I question, and he laughs, pointing towards the throne in the middle of the hall- but it’s  
Empty.  
“He is absent from here, for now, but he rules Sovngarde, our afterlife. In your culture, he is Lorkhan.” Ysgramor explains, and I nod. I kind of get it- most of the religious cultures of Tamriel are intertwined. Lorkhan, Sheogorath, Auri-El, just to name a few.  
The ancient warrior nods in a different direction, making me swivel my head to look too. “Those heroes…. I’ve seen them before.”  
I turn back to Ysgramor to catch a sly grin, before he clears his throat and it drops. “They will help you battle Alduin and free Men and Mer alike from his curse. Though, Dragonborn, I believe I must tell you…. We here in Sovngarde are grateful for your intervention. We do not often find ourselves in a position where we require help; and we have watched you since the beginning.”  
My eyes meet his, and I see something in them I’m unfamiliar with…. Sadness? Gratitude? Pity? I’m not a good read on character, nor on emotions.  
“Just…. Thank you. You will insure that we will meet our ancestors, and greet them, as we should. I hope that we will meet again, Dragonborn. Though, under better circumstances.” he smiles at me with that last thought, and nods once more towards the group of people waiting for me to lead them into battle- although I’m still unsure why they would want me to do so.  
Turning to look at them, I walk over, recognizing them from the Time-Wound, and my first real battle with Alduin. Helgen doesn’t really count…. I couldn’t really fight back. Hmm…. would that be the position that Alduin will be put in, only moments away?  
“Dragonborn! Will you lead us into battle to defeat the World-Eater?” the younger man yells, though I suppose age is relative here.  
I sigh, but nod. “Uh, yes, I guess.”  
“Come on, show some spirit! We’ve got a dragon to take down!” roars Gormlaith Golden-hilt, very enthusiastic. I wince, the volume of her voice surprising and startling me. Ouch.  
Those two dash out of the Hall, leaving me with the older man in his robes, the one who initiated throwing Alduin forward in time, and kind of causing this mess. But, I suppose it’s better than being enslaved by the dragons for millennia.  
“I am grateful to have you here, to fight by our side, Dovahkiin. I am Felldir the Old. We have honed our skills, since we last faced him.” he dips his head, walking with me towards the exit of the Hall.  
I push open the door, hesitating after he walks out.  
He turns back, asking, “Dovahkiin?”  
I shake my head, continuing into Sovngarde proper. “It is nothing. But I hope you are right, Felldir.”  
Gormlaith and the other man, Hakon One-Eye, I think I hear Gormlaith shout out in excitement, run ahead, drawing weapons already and crossing the Whale Bone bridge without even looking where their feet were falling. Maybe it’s a dead thing?  
Felldir notices my careful footfalls, and chuckles. “Calm yourself, Dovahkiin. No one has fallen from the bridge yet.”  
“Yet.” I chuckle nervously, though. “Doesn’t mean it can’t happen.”  
“True, but we have a greater enemy to face than the possibility of falling from here.” he points out, and I sigh.  
“Right. Of course.” I mumble, and we finally cross the bridge, Tsun watching us carefully.  
Something about him seems familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.  
Mentally shaking my head, I put the thought out of my mind, and focus. Alduin is priority right now. I can do this. We can do this.  
“We have to clear away the mist to draw him out. If we combine our Shouts, then it should do it. Clear Skies!” Felldir calls out, drawing his own weapon, and my eyes scan the horizon for a glimpse of black wings. I see nothing of the sort.  
“Lok Vah Koor!” I lead the Shout, the others joining in readily. Mist clears away, almost recoiling in fear.  
A few seconds pass, when a voice calls out, undoubtedly Alduin’s. No one else in the mist should be able to Shout.  
“Ven Mul Riik!”  
The mist comes flooding back in, and I sigh, already tired of this game.  
“Again!” Hakon calls out, frustration tinging his voice.  
“Lok Vah Koor!” we Shout again, and the mist retreats, maybe a bit confused. Can mist have such thoughts?  
Another moment of silence passes, and I hear Alduin give a roar, Shouting out again, “Ven Mul Riik!”  
I sigh in frustration, and Shout, hopefully for the last time for a while, to push back the mist. “LOK VAH KOOR!”  
Did the others even Shout with me? I don’t know…. But I can almost feel Alduin giving up his cowardice, taking off from his hiding spot and coming to face us. Finally.  
I draw my sword, choosing a lightning spell that starts crackling between my fingertips on my left hand. My eyes scan the skies for any sign of the World-Eater, as do all the others’. We’re eager for this to be over, but also… this is terrifying. Not even they’re immune to that- and they’re literally the souls of the dead.  
Makes me feel a little better about the shake in my hands and the jumping of the sparks. It’s not even a charged spell- that shouldn’t be happening.  
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, but it doesn’t work- it’s interrupted by Alduin’s roar. He’s soaring over us, and Gormlaith Shouts Dragonrend at him, forcing him to land.  
Which the black dragon does, though his frustration and anger can be felt- practically tasted- in the air.  
Immediately, he’s attacked, charged by these ancient Nord heroes who cast him back in time. He’s got to have a grudge against them…. I power up my spell, sending a stream of lightning that sparks against his scales, the magic moving along his entire form and covering him, briefly, in glowing magic.  
I keep it up, the strikes leaving my hands until my palm feels seared from the high temperature and the lack of magicka. The heroes are panting, though, if they’re dead, how can they be tired…..  
And Alduin takes off again, flying up and then crashing down about five seconds later, near me instead. I’ve been standing back- I’m the Dragonborn, if I die in the first attack, is that such a good thing?  
He bites at me, catching my leg in his maw. I can practically feel his triumph at hurting the last Dragonborn, his ultimate enemy, when I scream. Dragon bites hurt fiercely.  
“FUS RO DAH!” Shouts Felldir, or Hakon, or Gormlaith, whomever, pushing Alduin back. Reflexively, he lets go of me, and Gormlaith hurries to help me.  
I bite my lip as I pull up a healing spell, leaning heavily on Gormlaith.  
“Did he bite your bone?” she asks, the other two keeping him at bay for now.  
I shake my head no, and grit my teeth as I cast the spell, my hand hovering over the wound and sealing it up. I don’t have time for a full recovery, though, and only get it ‘sewn’ up until it’s stopped bleeding.  
“Dragonborn, are you sure that’s wise?” Gormlaith asks, and I stand on my own two legs again, hissing lightly at the pain.  
“No, but we have to deal with Alduin, and Felldir and Hakon can’t do it on their own.” I reply, another lightning spell sparking against my fingers- in a few moments, it’s charged up enough, and I let it fly through the air, striking Alduin full-on.  
Gormlaith nods, hesitating no longer, and charges into battle with her sword, as eager to fight him today as she was back in her mortal days.  
Together, blow after blow, slash after slash, spell after spell, we tackle the World-Eater, each Shouting at him when he tries to fly off, setting him on fire, pushing him off our comrades, intent upon saving each other and ridding the world of him forever.  
Finally, with a few more blows each, Alduin shudders to a halt, giving a last cry and one last effort, throwing himself at me, jaws ready to rip, tear, bite me apart.  
Instead, I Shout at him, “YOL!”  
The flames blind him, and I thrust my sword into his maw, stabbing upward. A little more pressure, and it tears through, the half Elven blade sticking out of his snout proudly.  
Alduin clamps down on my arm, though- pain racks through me again- and Felldir the Old strikes the final blow, sending his greatsword through his chest and, presumably, his heart.  
The World-Eater opens his jaws, breathing out his last, while I jerk both my arm and my sword out of his reach, immediately casting another healing spell over the wound- I swear, I’ve done more Restoration in this one encounter than in all my years.  
Alduin gives a great cry, and something…. Weird happens.  
His soul, instead of going to me, more….. Flows into the fabric of Sovngarde. I guess.  
The words he utters are guttural, hard to follow, like blood is welling up in his throat and making it difficult for him to speak. Does he even say anything at all?  
Maybe he does; maybe he doesn’t. If they were words, then, would I care? Do they really matter?  
I watch him, interest keeping my gaze locked on him, as he turns into a black dragon skeleton, his bones the only reminder of his presence here. The mist has all cleared away, his soul snare cleansed, finally.  
The skeleton explodes, the pieces melting away into… something. Magic, maybe….  
“Congratulations, Dragonborn. You have won a great victory here today, and you have saved both your world, and this one. Truly, you are worthy of the title of Last Dragonborn,” Tsun speaks, and I remember that he watched the whole thing.  
“Take this Shout to help you in the mortal realm; it will summon a hero of Sovngarde to aid you in battle.” the Shout simply appears in my mind, as Tsun grants me the knowledge. “I can send you back to the mortal realm when you are ready, Dragonborn.”  
I hear from the others, behind me, shouting for joy at the end of the World-Eater. Glancing back, I smile at them, tiredly. “Thank you for your help.”  
They smile back at me, and continue cheering. I turn back to Tsun, and nod. “I’m ready to return to my world, Tsun.”  
He smiles at me. “We will not forget this, Korina.”  
I don’t have time to ask him how he knew my name, when he Shouts me back.  
“Nahl Daal Vus!”  
I guess Gods can be as rude as humans.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, have a gift.

I arrive at the Throat of the World, surrounded by dragons. For a moment, I’m petrified, but…. They aren’t hostile. More, morose. Subdued.  
Am I truly zol mul? Did this prove that I was- am- strongest among the Dov? Even though I am not one of them, not truly?  
The dragons, though, are Shouting. Or, at least, speaking with enough emotion and in unison to actually make the ground feel like it’s quaking.  
“Alduin mahlaan.”  
Several take off, circling around the Throat of the World, but they still join in, saying the words of their fallen, erm, king. I guess. Was Alduin king of the Dragons? Or a god?  
Either way, he’s dead. Or vanquished. Whichever.  
“Sahrot thur qahnaraan.” they speak again, several of them as nonchalant as a cat cleaning itself.  
“Alduin mahlaan.” It rings through the air again, and I shiver lightly. It holds itself in the cradle of the air for just a moment longer than necessary- it’s disorienting. Maybe it’s just the aftereffects of coming back to Nirn.  
“Dovahkiin los ok dovahkriid.”  
I perk up when I hear my name… Los ok dovahkriid? Something dragon…. Obviously.  
“Alduin mahlaan.”  
“Thu’umii los nahlot.” Why can I Shout but not understand the Dov tongue? That seems like it’d be almost more useful. If you can speak Dov, then it would be more natural to develop it into Shouts, rather than the other way around. Especially with the Thu’um, you’d have to focus on not actually causing such effects.  
“Alduin mahlaan.”  
I finally see Paarthurnax, who’s looking at me sorrowfully. Right. Alduin is- was his brother- and whatever drove them apart, family is still family. It can be… difficult for someone to let those ties go. Though, are they really forever gone?  
“Mu los vomir.”  
More dragons join their brethren flying around the Throat of the World, seeming like this eulogy or mourning or funeral, whatever it is, is over.  
Odahviing, though, lands and calls out, proud, “Dovahkiin los kinboku!”  
Paarthurnax turns his head towards the red dragon, as if noticing him for the first time.  
Another dragon responds before Odahviing, though, and speaks, alighting on the mountain as well, higher up on the peak, near the rocks rather than the snow that Odahviing is resting slightly more comfortably on.  
“Rek fen funta; Ek filok nol Alduin lost vo mahfaeraak.”  
“Rek los kinboku.” Odahviing growls again, and the dragon resting on the peak tilts his head, considering me.  
“Rek fen vokri Dovah Rii?” the dragon on the peak asks, and Odahviing nods his head.  
“Rek fent. Dovahkiin los kinboku.” he repeats, and I’m left wondering what this conversation has been about. Maybe I should get Paarthurnax to teach me actual Dov rather than just Rotmulaag.  
The dragon on the peak considers this, and nods. “Dovahkiin los kinboku. Ek Thu’um los zol mul.”  
More dragons, flying around the mountaintop, agree with him, repeating parts of his statement, although I only recognize about four words of it.  
“Congratulations, Dovahkiin. You seem to have taken Alduin’s place as the strongest of the dragons. In time, those that did not bow here will do so, to the might of your Thu’um.” Paarthurnax says, pride resonating in his voice. It feels…. Good. Like a father’s pride, but decidedly more ancient and long lasting. I guess.  
“What did they say?” I ask him, and he chuckles.  
“It is not important, Dovahkiin. You have saved the world, and the Sillesejoor of your people.”  
“I wonder how many of them know that, and how many would remain complacent even if they knew my next step.” I wondered aloud, though quietly.  
Paarthurnax watches me, sorrow seeping into him. “If ever you seek refuge, Dovahkiin, come to High Hrothgar. Your Ahmul is not welcome here, after he abused his Thu’um.”  
“Thank you.” I mumble, tired. “I’ll…. Go rest now.”  
“That is for the best, Dovahkiin.” he calls after me, and watches while I walk down the mountain, the wind that protects the path non-existent tonight. A certain type of magic, I presume. It’s too much to think about.  
I already have enough on my mind.

I open the door to High Hrothgar, trudging in whilst sighing. Not only for the entire journey to Sovngarde, and the battle itself, but for the walk down and the thoughts that weighed on my conscious as well.  
“Welcome, Dragonborn. How was the afterlife?” Arngeir asks me, greeting me at the door from the courtyard. The sun’s rising, creating a beautiful scene on the horizon, the mountains outlined by the sun’s brilliance. I am unable to appreciate it, even though, by all rights, I should.  
By the gods, if anyone has the right to appreciate it, it’s me.  
“How to describe it, I suppose? Definitely surreal, I guess. Majestic, and….. Magical. I never would have guessed it to be like that.” I reply, and sigh again.  
“You are tired, Dragonborn. How about you rest here, and figure out the rest in the morning? You will be safe from your troubles here,” he responds, and points me to a bed.  
I pause, looking at him and nodding. “Thank you, Arngeir.”  
However, he’s already walking away. I watch him move to a meditation mat, greeting the sun where he concentrates on Rotmulaag, or Kynareth’s gloriousness, or something more pleasant than I can imagine.  
He- he chose this life. As boring and mediocre as it is, he chose it.  
I….. I feel such envy for an old man that has almost never seen anything beyond this monastery.  
How is that possible, when I will have power among men, mer, and dov alike? When I do have such power?  
I move my gaze away from him, dropping it and considering the possibilities. Will I ever have the sort of freedom that he has?  
I snort- ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous. I just…. I just need rest. No reason to think any more on this.  
Just keep moving. Keep living. Keep going.  
If I stop…… If I look back…. I might trap myself in a world of pity. I don’t need that, and neither does the world.  
Then again, do they even need me now?  
I sigh as I slip under the covers of the bed, belt with my sword and pack on the floor. I toss my gauntlets down after them, wiggling out of my boots. Tiredly, I move my hands up and take off my helmet carefully, reverently. I’m too tired to give it the care it deserves, after all it’s use and punishment. I’ll do it in the morning, I promise myself, and yawn, setting it on the side table. I’ve slept in my armor before.  
Will I, ever again?  
I’d shake my head to clear the thought from my stupid, overactive mind, but I don’t have the energy.  
My last thoughts, though, as I fall asleep, were of the Dov circling Keizaal, free and fluid above Tamriel.  
How I long for it…..

I wake up almost a day later, rubbing the crust from my eyes and yawning massively. It still feels like I could sleep for a week… I shouldn’t tempt myself in such a manner.  
I sit up, looking around. The Greybeards begin their meditation- I can hear their Shouts off the mountain from here. An interesting way to do so, making certain to not harm any animals, as Kynareth is their matron goddess.  
Fumbling in the near-darkness of the early morning, I find a candle on the side table, next to my helmet. A small flame, built of magicka, lights it, the easy spell dying before it starts to destroy the room. Wouldn’t want to burn down an ancient monastery after all the good I’ve done….  
I give a little chuckle at it, but don’t move for a while, merely watching the flame. It’s hypnotizing, the light it gives off dancing and making the shadows jump around it. It’s a work of beauty, a work of art in the making, but fleeting, dying, even as it lives.  
Jerking myself out of my depressive musings, I take my helmet in my hands, sighing as I did so. My hand seeks out my pack, taking a polishing rag from an inside pocket, and I let out a deep breath as I start to polish my armor. The flames of a dragon tarnished it quite a bit- hopefully nothing I can’t repair.  
The slow, methodical polishing relaxes me, and I feel the tension drain out as I move onto my gauntlets, then the boots, and finally, I disrobe from my armor, clad in only my undergarments. I feel odd, though, sitting in almost nothing in the bed of an elderly man who has never laid with a woman. I search my pack, and pull out a regular dress. It’s one that barmaids usually wear, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look twice at them because of how it showed off their curves. Quickly, I pull it on, although I’m not sure if the Greybeards would care or not. I’m fairly sure they don’t even know I’m awake.  
I sit on the edge of the bed, carefully polishing my main armor, the pieces that have actually kept me alive in so many fights. I go slow, the hinges requiring significant attention, which I gladly give. It’s the least I can do for them.  
My mind goes blank as I do this chore, until I finish, and Arngeir is standing in front of me.  
“I’ve been waiting to talk to you for ten minutes, Dragonborn.” The disciple of Kynareth raises an eyebrow. “Why did you not respond to me?”  
“I wasn’t aware you were there, to be quite honest. Polishing my armor is when I can actually think of nothing but the task in front of me.” I respond, folding the now-dirty rag and setting it neatly in it’s pocket, inside of my bag. “What did you wish to discuss?”  
He looks at me for a moment, then launches into speech. “The treaty we designed here still stands. I know you do not wish for it to be so, but we must adhere to our part of the bargain. You must marry Ulfric Stormcloak, be it that you hate him or not.”  
I sigh, looking at him. “Do you believe I do not know that? That I am not aware?”  
He shifts, uncomfortable. “I felt it might bear repeating, thanks to what occurred yesterday. We could hear the Shouts from here, and, no doubt, they were heard throughout all of Skyrim. While almost none will understand what was said, Paarthurnax translated for us, and for you. When you were awake, I was to tell you.”  
“Missed that by a couple hours, but continue.” I comment, and the priest nods.  
“Odahviing, I believe, started a movement of sorts, for you to be considered the leader of the Dov. You are recognized as the strongest of dragons, though you only have the Thu’um of one.”  
“Yay…” I mutter, and stand up. “Just another thing to worry about. Thank you, Arngeir. I should be going soon…”  
He nods again. “Farewell, Dragonborn. I wish you well on your journey throughout life. And remember, you always have a place here.”  
I nod. “Thank you.”  
Arngeir turns and goes back to his meditations, or duties, or something along those lines. I sigh, watching his retreating back. Why does this feel like something I’ll be doing much more of, in the future?  
I shake off the feeling, instead turning to my armor and sliding out of the dress into the protective shell, encasing me securely once more. I pull on the gauntlets and boots, setting the helmet on the bed so I won’t forget it. My hands slowly wrap my belt around my waist, my sword and bag clattering on my armor as I didn’t bother to unhook them from it.  
Perhaps I should have waited to put on my gauntlets, but they’re already on. I’m slower with them on, the layer of glass inhibiting some movement of my fingers, or at least, hindering my ability to work my digits fast.  
I don’t quite want to go fast on this, though. Every moment I waste doing things other than journey to Windhelm is no waste, in my opinion.  
I close my eyes, sitting back down on the bed. I’d stood to equip my armor, but my thoughts were rapidly catching up with me.  
My hands slowly reach for my helmet, and I take it in my hands, considering it. Thanks to the polishing I gave it, it’s shining brightly in the light, the green-blue and gold metal reminding me of home, just a bit.  
I let out another sigh, and place the helmet on my head, ready to face the day.  
Or not. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? It’ll come whether I wish it to or not.  
With another sigh, I will myself to walk to the exit of High Hrothgar, the wind howling already. It’s rather amazing, actually, how the wind hasn’t blown the monastery off the mountain, or at least made it uninhabitable by eroding the rock it’s built on.  
I suppose it’s Kynareth’s influence that protects the Greybeards and their residence.  
But do the gods truly have any kind of influence on Nirn?  
I shake my head, the wind giving me an extra chill, though the day is bright and sunny.  
I shouldn’t question the gods- only bad things happen to those who do.

I walk slowly along the road to Whiterun, considering the path before me. A dog is plodding along by my side- a stray. I don’t have the heart to shoo him away, instead patting him on the head and giving him some venison strips I had. He appreciates it, barking and nuzzling my hand.  
I smile as he frolicks, chasing a butterfly when he sees one in front of him. Such innocence. Such fun.  
Ahead of me, though, I notice something- a contingent of….. What is that?  
I watch for a while, and notice that the one leading the arrangement is Jarl Balgruuf, with a Thalmor Justiciar beside him. Ondolemar, I believe? I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell from here, they all wear the same robes that cast shadows over their faces.  
Behind them, though, is a small contingent of Whiterun guards, several Thalmor Enforcers, and further back are troops from the Legion. The Legate in charge is riding in front of her troops, rather than at the head with the Jarl and the Thalmor. An interesting choice, especially with the Empire’s stance in Skyrim. Allowing the Thalmor to ride next to the Jarl of Whiterun? Very interesting.  
A horse with no rider is being led by one of the guards from Whiterun, and I realize- it’s an honor guard. I think. Here to make sure that when I return to Whiterun, I’ll be escorted to Windhelm to fulfill the treaty.  
I sit down on a nearby rock formation, and the dog sits next to me, panting happily, no care in the world. My hand scratches his head, and his tail wags excitedly. I should name him something, if he’s going to follow me…  
Huh. I’ve never had a pet before. What should I name him?  
I watch the honor guard break their formation so they can climb the path to reach me, once it became clear that I wasn’t going to walk down to them. I could run, though. Balgruuf would undoubtedly sympathize, holding the Thalmor back and saying that I’m clearly not me, clearly not who I am, and that I’m probably not back yet. Saving the world takes time, you know?  
I briefly consider the idea, toying with living a life of anonymity, of having no ties and no responsibilities, just myself. Well, and this dog.  
Absentmindedly, I pet him, the dog lying down now and content to do nothing. All three- the Justiciar, the Jarl, and the Legate- dismount before starting up the hill, like I’ll spook if they don’t. My eyes follow them as they ascend the slope, the Legate now leading the horse up to me herself.  
“Dragonborn! I see you have returned from your quest,” smiles Jarl Balgruuf, while the Justiciar scowls. Elven hearing is sensitive, but so is their pride.  
Even though I’m half elven, they’d rather see a full elf do it, just to stick it to the Nords, especially with the Dragonborn being a Nordic hero.  
I suppose I can’t please everybody, even though I doubt I’ve pleased almost anyone.  
I continue scratching the dog’s ears, his tail continuing to wag. His chocolate brown eyes glance up at me with pure joy, and I smile, looking solely at the dog. Somehow, he has become the center of my world. For now.  
The Jarl’s smile dies, as I don’t respond. My very presence should be enough to confirm that my quest is over- shouldn’t it?  
He clears his throat, and nods at the Legate- who, I can see clearly now, is Rikke. She smiles as she approaches, the horse trotting behind her.  
“Hey, Korina. Are you alright?” she asks, and I nod, scratching the dog’s head still.  
“You won?” she continues, watching me. Conveniently, the horse idles, stilling himself before the view of the Justiciar and Balgruuf.  
I nod again, and lift my eyes to hers.  
She’s relieved, and I’m immediately hit with a bolt of pain. Her relief……  
I shake my head, clearing it, and stand, patting my leg for the dog to follow.  
“Let’s get going.”  
Rikke nods, handing me the reins. “We’re heading to Windhelm to pick up…. Uh…. you know who. Then on to Riften.”  
“And if I refuse to be married in Riften?” I ask, considering my options, as well as the beast in front of me. He’s a blonde haired horse, sturdy and strong. Not Swifter, though.  
Rikke bristles, eyes widening in surprise. “There would be civil war in the country again, Dragonborn. Who knows how long it could rage…. How many lives would be lost…”  
“I didn’t mean cancelling the marriage altogether, Rikke. I meant that I don’t want to be married in Riften. My homeland is…. It’s too far. I don’t have any of the traditional garb from my homeland. My mother wouldn’t lower herself to journey to Riften without significant grumbling, and I am not going to disappoint her like that.” I respond, moving the reins to their proper place, rather than where they were, with Rikke using them as a lead. In a smooth motion, I mount the horse, wondering in my mind what his name is, or if he even has one.  
The dog barks at me, happy to be going somewhere with his new owner.  
Rikke stands still, watching me with a concerned expression on her face.  
“Dragonborn, you aren’t going to…..”  
“My name is Korina, Rikke.” I turn the horse, guiding the horse down the path confidently, surely, the horse placing steady and true steps on the slope. Trailing behind me, the dog follows.  
Why does everyone seem to forget my name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name the dog, I don't know what to call him.


	6. Chapter 6

Snow practically bleeds from the sky, the weather from Eastmarch coming into Whiterun Hold thanks to a strong wind. The pass below the Throat of the World is the quickest way into Eastmarch, the quickest way to Windhelm. I can’t say I’m happy about our time, though.  
The province of Eastmarch holds true to it’s claim as the snowiest province, though the wind has thankfully died down. The snow’s continuing, though, drifting down from the sky peacefully.  
Several flakes nestle in my hair, as the metal of helmets, when frozen, can peel off skin when removed, thanks to the bitter cold. I’ve seen it happen- it’s not pretty. Ergo, my helmet is resting on the pommel of my saddle, secure enough with one hand resting on it, the other holding the reins loosely.  
The non-Nords, mostly elves, are shivering with cold, the temperature below zero. Those with Nordic blood, though, are perfectly fine, almost sweating thanks to the pace I’ve set. Although I don’t want to do this, I don’t want my ‘honor guard’ to freeze to death before we get anywhere near Windhelm, or Riften, for that matter.  
Rikke nudges her horse up, coming to trot beside me. My eyes shift to her, my head following.  
She smiles slightly at me. “Well, Dra- Korina, are you trying to hurry the wedding? Eager for your husband?”  
“No, I am not. I despise the choice that I am faced with, and I will despise him for it. Who makes your wife, your life partner, choose between you and your selfish desires, or being responsible for hundreds of deaths, perhaps thousands, even beyond that?” I spit out venomously, and Rikke startles, dropping back as she stills her horse.  
She shakes it off, and comes trotting back up beside me. “You can’t seriously be considering that, though…”  
I breathe in deeply. “I never said I was. The preservation of life, is, I suppose, an admirable enough goal to sacrifice my freedom and any happiness I might have in the future.”  
Rikke stops trying to initiate conversation with me, as we trot along the road, the honor guard following us and keeping me from running straight into a death trap.  
I watch from horseback, as a Justiciar and the Thalmor wizard, along with two Legionnaires and a duo of guards from Whiterun make short work of the bandits at Valtheim Towers. Apparently, despite saving the world against an ancient evil that no one else had even a hope of defeating, I cannot fend for myself against simple bandits.  
I do, however, appreciate the feeling that I had people who are willing to fight for me.  
There is a special satisfaction in watching as an ancient ruin is cleared out before your eyes, the bandits getting exactly what they deserve. Beside me, the stray barks happily, unaware of the fight going on mere feet away from him. Somehow.  
Rikke nudges her horse forward, coming to rest beside me. “Korina, we should move on.”  
“No. I will not dishonor these men who decided to fight for me by leaving them, to not revel in their victory, to not mourn them as they fall, if they should fail,” I respond, staring in the direction of the fighting.  
“It’s not safe here while there’s fighting going on, Dragonborn,” sounds out Jarl Balgruuf, and I move my head slightly, angling it towards him.  
I’m trying to act more like a leader. Zol mul. Most strong. Am I acting more like a dragon, or like a mer? Or a man, for that matter?  
It doesn’t quite matter. I’m allowed to be an oddity. I’m allowed to grow into my strength. I’m allowed to use it, however I desire.  
“Dragonborn, it really is unsafe for us here,” the Jarl tries again, and I chuckle.  
Rikke looks at me from the side, a bit startled. Why would I laugh at that statement? That’s probably what she’s thinking.  
“I had no idea you were so cowardly, Jarl Balgruuf. Tell me, are you afraid to go into battle too?” I turn my head just enough so I can see him, his face turned ashen with rage.  
“I am no coward,” he starts, attempting to win back something from me. Perhaps control?  
“And yet, you have suggested twice that we are unsafe here, despite being surrounded by Legionnaires, your own guards, a Legate, and Thalmor agents. Despite the fact that you have combat experience, and you seem to not count how I am both a Legate in the Imperial Legion, and the Dragonborn hero of legend, who just killed Alduin, the firstborn son of Akatosh. So, despite the bandits who pose significantly less danger than a dragon, you believe that I am somehow in danger, yet, not even a week ago, you sent me on a quest to kill the leader of the Dov, knowing full well that it was the most dangerous thing you can ask of a person.” I take a breath, looking at the Jarl. “So, tell me, Jarl Balgruuf, do you really believe that I am in danger? And that, by extension, you are?”  
The Jarl opens his mouth to say something, but I interrupt him.  
“If you believe that you are in such danger that we must abandon these people who volunteered to fight for me, then you might as well turn around and run home to your safe little palace, like a craven lord.”  
Legate Rikke gapes like a fish at my statements, unbelieving that I would dare to speak to a Jarl that way. The Justiciar beside Balgruuf heard every word, and smirks, enjoying this. Nothing like putting a Nord down….  
Before the Jarl can respond, if he actually can, the troops come back from the ruin, carrying a chest with a healthy store of loot within.  
“Dragonborn, ma’am, the bandits have been cleared from the ruin,” says a Legionnaire, smiling.  
I return said smile, beaming like a proud mother cat at them all. “Thank you for ensuring the safety of this party, and volunteering for it willingly. Are any of you hurt or injured?”  
“Quill here got shot with an arrow in his arm, and Elaath got a pretty bad cut in a fight against the Bandit Leader,” he gestures to a Whiterun guard and a Thalmor enforcer respectively.  
“Do we have a healer?” I ask Rikke, and she thinks about it, turning in her saddle to look behind her at the Justiciar, who shakes his head. The Whiterun guards wouldn’t have one, either….  
I nod, and dismount my new horse, the dog following me closely.  
The contingent who fought for me startles, not expecting this…. Whatever it is.  
“Relax. I know a healing spell, it should sooth the pain, if not heal the wound,” I explain, equipping said spell in my hands and gesturing for them to come forward. “Don’t be a fool; if you’re injured, come forward. I’ll do what I can, it’s the least I can do since you risked your lives for me.”  
The Whiterun guard steps forward, Quill, though he looks slightly apprehensive of the magic in my hands.  
Hovering my hands over the shoulder wound, I let the magicka flow through my fingertips, the hole where the arrow pierced him knitting itself back together easily. He shivers, but smiles, the pain falling off of him as naturally as water falls off a canvas.  
“Thank you, Dragonborn,” he responds, covering his shoulder up again. No need to expose it to the cold.  
I nod at him, and gesture for the Thalmor enforcer to step forward.  
The Head Justiciar behind me clears his throat. “The Thalmor take care of our own,” he growls out.  
“And yet, you do not have the capacity to heal your soldier.” I snark back, and the Thalmor steps forward, her left arm bitten into by a particularly vicious swing of the bandit leader’s sword.  
The Thalmor wizard behind her smiles gratefully at me, the elf’s face much more suited to a smile than to a scowl. Thalmor training, for wizards, focuses almost purely on Destruction, a small highlight on Conjuration and Alteration, with some augmented Enchanting and Alchemy being taught as well. No Restoration is taught, something I can never understand….  
I hover my hands over it, the wound sewing itself back up. She smiles at me, dipping her head. “Thank you, ma’am,”  
I nod back. “Was anyone else injured?”  
They shake their heads no, the bandits thankfully untalented in the ways of the blade, at least somewhat.  
“Was anyone killed?”  
Again, another head shake.  
“Good. Thank you for fighting for me. Since you showed such bravery and courage, I would like you to escort me personally, outside of your contingents, to Windhelm.”  
The Head Justiciar squawks out his outrage, and I shush him.  
“You are, of course, free to rejoin your contingents, if you wish, but I would like you to be recognized as what you are. Courageous, loyal, and unafraid of sacrificing yourself for me. I did not expect this, and I wish to show my gratitude by making you a part of my personal honor guard, at least for this trip.”  
The group looks at each other, eyes growing wide as they realize I’m serious about this. Well, why wouldn’t I be? Theoretically, I’m placing my life in their hands. And in the dog, who is very excited at these new people in our ‘pack.’ He’s investigating them and barking up a storm in his excitement. It’s sweet.  
They smile, though, and incline their heads to me.  
“Of course, Dragonborn,” says the Thalmor guard, as the Justiciar fumes behind me silently. What will he do? Say that this will not be allowed, and potentially cause an international incident between the legendary Dragonborn hero and the Aldmeri Dominion, over a single guard?  
I smile at them all. “Thank you. I appreciate being protected and accompanied by such capable warriors.”  
I swear, some of them would glow if they could. It’s not often they’re complimented on their combat skills, I gather. In a smooth movement, or one as smooth as I can make it, thanks to my unfamiliarity with my horse, I mount up again, nodding at my new honor guard. Well, official honor guard.  
They form up behind me as I nudge my steed forward, the animal eager to resume movement. The horses of Skyrim are hardy, but few animals like the cold. Rikke falls behind me as well, watching as my honor guard and myself move ahead, following next to the Jarl and the Justiciar.  
I’d like to think I’m growing as a leader, but really, I’m just being petty about this.  
Can’t say it doesn’t feel good, though.

Our progress to Windhelm slows, thanks to the pickup in the wind and the snow. I shiver, the cold nipping at my limits. I should have brought a cloak with me to Sovngarde…  
We’ve just passed Fort Amol, I think. The snow is making it difficult to depict the path fifteen feet ahead, so it could be anyone’s guess, at this point.  
I grit my teeth as a particularly strong gust of wind knocks against us, flinging more snow into our eyes. My beast is no longer as sure footed as he was at the beginning of this journey; although perhaps my own hesitancy has produced that effect.  
I pause, when we reach the bridge. I don’t know where the rest of my escort went, I just assumed they were behind me this entire time.  
Taking a moment, I nod to myself and dismount the horse, glancing behind my honor guard for the small army that was supposed to follow.  
I see nothing, though it could just be the snow obscuring my vision. Perhaps we should have rested at Fort Amol. There is still that option….  
My guard is watching me, and I sigh. I’m unsure of what to do…. Elaath, the Thalmor, is shivering almost uncontrollably, her Elven blood doing her no good in this climate, or this snowstorm.  
“Elaath,” I say, and they take notice, turning to the Thalmor, who looks up at me in surprise. “Come here,”  
She obeys, and I guide her to my horse. “You are unused to this climate. Please, rest yourself as we journey onward.” I offer the reins, and she looks at me in disbelief.  
“Dragonborn, I…. I cannot… It is your honor….”  
“And my legs are telling me that I’m tired of sitting on him and doing nothing. Get on the horse so you don’t drop dead.” I pressure, and she gives in, nodding, with chattering teeth.  
I smile softly, and help her onto the horse, settling her in. The heat from the animal should help her, and not expending her energy in walking should do the same.  
I turn to the rest of the guard. “We’ll continue to Windhelm from here. If you become too cold or tired to continue, tell me. I will leave none of you behind.”  
They nod, and form a closer barrier, one of them taking the reins of the horse so that Elaath could actually rest, following the honor guard rather than leading it. She nods at them, the Whiterun guard, who nods back. Nonverbal communication seems to be much more efficient in snowstorms than I thought.  
I lead the way into the wind, growling at it and cursing in intervals. Hopefully, we’re the only ones stupid enough to be out in this storm.  
While everyone’s tired and chilled to the bone, it feels… right. Like this. To have a close group of good warriors, maybe not the best, but definitely fighters. I have no idea if the Dragonborn should have something like an entourage, since the Blades have lost their way, but… it does feel right, like this.  
Maybe I should keep them around, even after this hell of a journey.  
“Dragonborn, we should be reaching a mill soon!” the guard I healed, Quill, yells at me, shouting above the storm’s level of noise.  
I nod, exaggeratedly, so that he knows I heard him. We could stop, rest for a little while, and then either ask for shelter or push on. Although I would like to continue, get this over with, the idea of staying and enjoying even a few more hours of freedom, even unconscious and sleeping, appeals more than I can say…  
The road beneath our feet is slippery, covered in a thin layer of ice in some places, only snow in others. Why is this hold this way?  
Some small buildings, about twenty feet away, become more than outlines in the snowstorm. The mill! Never have I been so glad to see a simple mill.  
I lead the way to an area behind one of the buildings, the wind and the snow abating slightly, enough that only slightly louder than normal voices were necessary.  
“How far is it to Windhelm from here?” I ask, above the slightly diminished roar of the wind.  
Quill, apparently more familiar with this region than anyone else, responds, “About an hour in this weather, ma’am,”  
I think about it, considering the options. I doubt we could get inside these buildings, let alone be invited in by their owners, who are probably tucked safely in bed, unlikely to hear knocks on their door, and even more unlikely to hear them over this wind.  
However, an hour’s journey in blistering cold…  
“We have no choice but to continue. We’ll rest here for a few minutes, then continue.” I shout, and the guards nod, one of them helping a rejuvenated Elaath off the horse.  
“Dragonborn, please use your mount. It is your steed,” she tries, and I shake my head.  
Critically, I survey all of my guards. The Nords shiver the least, the cold of their homeland a welcome comfort. The Legionnaires don’t look terrible, and as far as I can tell, only Elaath and the Thalmor wizard are severely affected by this, though both can walk still. If they cannot go on, then onto the horse they’ll go. I’ve no doubt that, at this dismal walking pace we’ve been going at, the horse can carry two elves.  
This cold, though, prompts several of the men to search their small packs for mead, one of their staples and the only thing that can really ‘ignite a fire in your belly,’ according to most Nords.  
I watch, amusement flickering on my face, as I try and school my features as to not show it. If I am to be zol mul, then why not start by being a leader of men as well as the Dov?  
The dog, though, has other plans, and whines at my side for attention, the mutt doing fine in the cold, though there is some frost buildup on the tips of his fur.  
I grant him the attention, petting his head and along his body gently, clearing the frost buildup. Everyone around me cracks open a bottle of mead, the Whiterun guards passing out excess bottles to those ‘unprepared’ for this journey, even giving me one.  
Wordlessly, we raise our bottles in silent salute, although I’m unsure of what it’s for, and down at least a couple gulps each.  
Absentmindedly, I pet the dog beside me, as my honor guard drinks their mead. If we were in an inn or tavern, undoubtedly, they’d be laughing and joking. However, with the snowstorm, the ability to talk and joke is…. Rather impeded.  
After a few minutes, the last dregs of mead are swallowed, the bottles safely capped and stored away in packs. Our company stands, helping others up and stretching, as Elaath mounts the horse, nodding gratefully to me for my ‘sacrifice.’ I wouldn’t call it that, I feel fine, while she’s shivering and chattering so loudly I’m slightly afraid that a bear will hear her and attack.  
I’m not that familiar with bears.  
A Legionnaire takes the reins from her, and she smiles at him, something I’m sure would be a full beam if she were able to move her frozen face muscles more.  
My guards nod at me, not collectively, but enough so that I’m aware that they’re all ready to set out again.  
Turning around, dog at my side, I start walking along the path again, the wind biting sharply into me and the cold stinging my exposed cheeks.  
This will be a long walk…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still need a name for the dog.... Suggestions are welcome....


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still open on the dog's name....

The wind keeps howling, even directly outside of Windhelm. My honor guard is a bit relieved to have arrived, at the very least. I look at the city disdainfully, unhappy with both the amount of snow already piling up around it and the bitter cold that’s driving all of us to help both Thalmor. At least Elaath has armor on- the Thalmor wizard just has robes. It’s insane to do a traditional weave of cloth and send the person wearing them to the coldest and most Northern place you can.  
But, the Thalmor aren’t exactly that big on going against Elvish culture. The radical faction that took over my home has always been one hundred percent committed to Elvish heritage and the culture, claiming superiority over all others.  
Insanity, I tell you.  
Hobbling, as their feet are likely frozen, we approach the gates to Windhelm proper, the Nordic city looking about as inviting as the continuing snowstorm, still swirling around us.  
The guards, after glancing at us in an odd way, wave us through, although one stops one of the Whiterun guards to yell something in his ear that the wind snatches away before the rest of us can catch it.  
Quill frowns, but leads the way inside, the other guard stepping forward to discuss what the native told him with his fellow.  
Shaking his head unhappily, he turns to us. “Apparently, Ulfric has made it so that the Snow Quarter is the only place elves can find lodging now.”  
I blink slowly, processing this information. The cold might have damaged my brain a tad.  
“He did what?”  
Quill looks at the ground, clearly intimidated. Did I growl out that question? Who knows. Not me.  
The dog beside me barks, his excitement at being in a city growing, especially now that he’s mostly out of the wind.  
The guard originally told, I believe his name is Cicelle, opens his mouth and repeats it, in such a quiet voice that I’m sure I growled out my earlier question.  
I sigh. “Where will we go then?” I gesture to us High Elves, the only ones in our group that aren’t human. Well, fully human.  
“The guard mentioned there was a Cornerclub in the Gray Quarter. Er, the Snow Quarter.” Cicelle elaborates, then continues. “He said that us humans could stay in Candlehearth.”  
I growl again, though not words this time, just a sound of raw frustration. I have half a mind to march up to the Palace of Kings and murder him on the spot.  
But then, a rebellious thought emerges into my head.  
“Well, then. He’ll have to come and get me from there, won’t he.” I think about it, and nod my head. “Stay where you will. I’ll be in my designated inn.”  
“With due respect, ma’am, we’re not leaving you.” speaks up a Legionnaire, and the guards nod.  
“We won’t either.”  
A smile curls on my face, actually warm. “Let’s hope that they have enough space, then.”  
I’m…. touched, actually. Not leaving my side, even in these circumstances.  
A true Nordic loyalty.

“Hello there,” drawls a Dark Elf, the innkeeper. “Welcome to the Gnisis Cornerclub. What brings you all here, with that nasty storm outside?”  
“A very much hated errand and task. Could we have lodging here?” I ask the innkeeper, who looks firmly at all of us.  
“Your Nord friends can stay at the Candlehearth Hall. City center, right before the gates outside. Can’t miss it.”  
“They don’t want to leave me unguarded.” I smile at him, taking a seat at the bar. My dog sits at my side, whining for pets, which I happily grant.  
“Who are you, to be so important, that you’ve got a guard?” asks another Dark Elf, coming from behind the bar. He leans against the doorframe, the wood see-through in some places thanks to gaps in construction.  
I smile. “It’s a secret.”  
They scoff, but pour me and the others at the bar drinks, pulling up mead for the ones who sit at the table behind me. Elaath nods her thanks when they give her a steaming bowl of stew, and the guard sitting next to her pulls her chair up close to the fire, attempting to warm her up. Another does the same for the Thalmor wizard.  
The bartender sets two bowls of stew in front of me. “One’s for the dog. What’s her name?”  
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe something to proclaim my anger at the gods would do it…. Maybe Duggy….” I shrug, placing the bowl on the floor so she could eat it.  
“What’re you angry at the gods for?” the Dunmer asks, polishing a tankard with a cloth absentmindedly, still maintaining eye contact with me.  
“Something they cursed me with. No matter what I do, I think they’ll keep it in place.” I take a swig of my mead, feeling the warmth from the alcohol already beginning to spread through my system. It’s nice, to feel warmth again. Wait, will alcohol be the only way I can do that from now on?  
I shake the thought away before it can fully grip me, and turn my attention back to the bartender. “So, how is Windhelm under Ulfric the Pretender’s rule?”  
He scoffs in disgust. Or something akin to it, only reinforced by his next statements.  
“He pretends all right. The only people he cares about are his precious kin, the Nords. Leaves us Elves to rot in this decrepit corner of the city. He won’t even let Argonians or Khajiit inside the city! High elves will probably be next on his banned list… You travelling with Thalmor doesn’t help anything. I bet the guards were hesitant to let you in.”  
I nod, remembering the dirty looks and the pause before allowing our group in. “We do have some humans among us, though, so that probably helped…”  
“Of course it did. If they turned away Nords, Imperials, Redguards, or even Bretons, Ulfric would be fuming, no matter if they came in with elves or not. If it’s a group, it’s even more difficult to pick and choose the way Ulfric wants them to.” He sniffs disdainfully, switching out the glasses to polish another one. “But why do you have an honor guard, and why would you, an elf, be travelling with one to Windhelm, of all places?”  
I grimace, hoping to avoid this, but not caring enough to really try and wiggle out of it.  
“I have to do something I don’t wish to and give up my freedom for it. Saving lives, you know, all that heroic stuff- after I’ve already done something like that.”  
He shakes his head. “I’ve seen your like before. It’ll get better. Monsters- if you’re married to one, that is- they can be slain.”  
I smile slightly, thinking about it. “As tempting as that sounds, it wouldn’t be wise.”  
“How unwise?” he asks, his rag stilling a bit as his interest in the conversation piques.  
“Very much so.” I smile sadly, eyes dimming with a bit of sadness.  
“There’s always the Dark Brotherhood…. I would suggest the Morag Tong, too, but they only operate with state-ordained murders.” the bartender suggests, somewhat jokingly, somewhat serious.  
I chuckle at it, though storing the idea away. “I’ll think about it, for sure.”  
He smirks in reply, and moves on to serve his usuals, trickling into the Cornerclub, most looking tired and worn out. I bet if we went to the Candlehearth, not a Nord in there would look like they did as much work as these elves do.  
My heart twinges…. I can’t do anything to change Ulfric’s mind about these conditions…. Or can I?  
I take another drink as I consider the question, glancing around the room at the elves… The only humans in the tavern are part of my honor guard.  
That…. Is a problem.  
Why would he segregate elves and humans? Better yet, why the beastial races too? They’re not even allowed in the city! It’s not unusual to not allow Khajiit into cities, the notorious thieving skills of the cat race hitting the stereotype home, but Argonians?  
I sigh, thinking about Ulfric the Pretender and his actions towards his populace. Hostility inspiring hostility… Not a good combination.  
Something stills the conversation in the inn, though. Or club. Cornerclub. Why is it called a Cornerclub? Oh, who knows.  
The yelling outside- that’s what’s stalling the conversation.  
Who, of all people, would be insane enough to go out on a night like this, wind and storm and snow and all, to yell about the supposed inferiority of a race of people?  
I stand, hearing only snippets of his one sided conversation, but enough to know that if I’m going to be here, in this city, with a husband who ignores this kind of slander, I’m going to do this, no matter.  
Pushing the door aside, I walk into the street, the dog following me closely, maybe sensing my agitation.  
I catch the last part of this idiot’s phrase… “... gray-skin filth!”  
Amazing. Not even two sentences he’s ever spoken to me, and I hate him already.  
“Hey! Stop shouting insults at these people! They have a hard enough life without your stupidity butting in on it.” I cross my arms in front of my torso, glaring at this guy.  
“I’m a Nord! This is my land!” he argues with the solidity of a toddler.  
“Your people migrated here from Atmora, and drove the Snow Elves to extinction to conquer this land. It’s not yours anymore than it’s mine.” I shrug, my argument based in logic and facts.  
He glares at me. “We don’t want your kind here! No elves at all! Go back to your Imperial masters, Thalmor dog!”  
I arch an eyebrow. “Do you intend to just throw words at me all night, or are you too much of a coward to try and prove that elves are weaker than Nords?”  
“I’ll fight you, a hundred gold, and you’ll get out of the city with the rest of this filth!” his words slur- obviously he drank a bit more than he could handle.  
“I’ll match the hundred gold bet, but I can’t tell anyone what to do, where to go, or how to live.” I counter offer, already ready to fight him.  
“Fine! Then you’ll just leave!” he runs towards me, probably very fast in his mind, and throws the first punch.  
I duck out of the way, the drunkard’s fists flying everywhere. Clumsy…  
I put my own fists up, a bit unsure about this, as I’ve never fist fought anyone before. But I’ll be damned if I let him try and control me.  
Unsure of how to fist fight anyone, much less a drunk and unpredictable Nord, I throw a punch at him, managing to connect with his shoulder.  
The first punches have been thrown…. I wonder how this’ll go for me. For either of us.

True to Nordic fashion, he was still standing- even while drunk, in blistering cold, and having taken some hits… some hard ones, if I do say so myself.  
I’m a bit ashamed to admit that I’m in similar shape- with the bruises from his own hits. A crowd of somewhat drunk, somewhat sober people is around us, cheering for either side- it’s not quite equal parts Nord and Elves, but the Nords are the loudest, so it feels about half and half.  
The crowd chants behind me as I raise my fists again, the Nord going in for yet another swing, roaring as he approaches. Quickly, I lash out before he can hit me, side stepping him as neatly as I can on somewhat uneven and slippery ground. I’m not quite quick enough to dodge the entire blow, but it’s better than facing it full on.  
My fist collides with his shoulder again, sending him veering off, the crowd catching him and throwing him back towards me. They’ve circled us in a ring, boos and whoops of joy coming from all sides.  
“You…. elven filth!” the man calls out, stumbling towards me, and I grit my teeth, trying to retain control of my Voice and my temper in one. “Ya got no right to be here, in our city!”  
“What right have you?” I ask, and approach him quickly, tired of this fight.  
“I’m a Nord!” he shouts, and swings at me. My own swing hits him in the stomach, sending his veering from where it was aimed as he doubles over in pain. It ends up hitting my chest, the blow glancing off my armor and perhaps causing a bit of damage from the decorative crest.  
“This land was the Snow Elves before Atmorans invaded and drove them underground.” I say, kicking his side, the man groaning in pain.  
I back off, letting him stand up in time for one final rally against me.  
“Go back where you came from!” he screams, rage and alcohol mixing to form some sort of suicidal berserker rage, making him run at me with fists drawn back.  
I charge at him as well, letting one of his swings connect with me as I slam both fists against the sides of his head, dazing him.  
I say nothing as I drag him over to the wall of the city, and slam his head further into the stone protecting us from the wind.  
He’s out cold, and will probably have a killer headache tomorrow. I don’t even bother to take the gold he now owes me- like I want money that’s touched the hands of a man who hates me and my kind.  
The crowd cheers, the Nords hissing and booing for the most part, but a couple who just wanted to see a good fight joined in with the Elves. Soon enough, the crowd disperses, the night cold enough to drive even the Nords inside somewhere.  
My honor guard accompanies me back into the Gnisis Cornerclub. All around me are smiles, and I’m thinking, with all the claps on the back I’m getting, I’ll be sore there tomorrow, rather than where I was actually hit.  
“Round of drinks, on me!” I call out, and another cheer goes up, the bartender happily pulling up drinks of every kind and flavor he has, as I pull out a coin purse and set it on the table, the metallic clink lost in the chaos of the tavern, which now has my guards and a lot of Dark Elves starting to sing some songs.  
I watch, content to simply watch, as I pet my dog and drink my sujamma, the bartender winking at me and assuring me, “You’ll like it, trust me, serjo.”  
This feels…. Right. Well, not right, but at least good.  
I hope that the rest of this stay in Windhelm is even a little bit as nice as this.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's been a while. Kind of short, but it's an update.

Mild amusement follows me up the stairs of the Cornerclub, the innkeepers allowing my entire honor guard to stay- since I clocked a racist in the mouth earlier. I’m carrying Quill, who turned out to be a lightweight, up the stairs to our beds for the night.  
I’m not terribly optimistic about the quality of them, judging by the sad state of the walls of the pub, but a bed is a bed. And, frankly, we’re more than weary enough to fall asleep on piles of hay, so I doubt it’s a big breaking point.  
I set Quill down on one of the beds, the man already snoring lightly, and shake my head at him. A Nord who can’t hold his liquor. What else will happen?  
The others all thump up behind me, some of them supporting each other. The drinking wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but it certainly won’t be the greatest part of the next morning, I’d imagine.  
One by one they all plop onto beds. Some took the time and concentration to take off their armor, while some didn’t. Soon enough, though, they all find sleep when their heads hit the pillow.  
I lay down as well, covering myself with a threadbare blanket on the bed. My mind wanders, though. I can’t sleep, my mind too clouded with thoughts of the future.  
I… I cannot live in this city, not while my new husband decides that some people are inferior to others based on their race.  
But how can I escape this?  
I mentally shake my head to get rid of those treasonous thoughts.  
If I don’t do this, thousands will die. How can I put my personal feelings above the welfare of those people?  
My thoughts don’t leave me, won’t leave me, can’t leave my head.  
Perhaps... Perhaps it would be worth it. The war.  
No.  
No it wouldn’t.  
I reaffirm my actions to myself, and refuse to think about the outcome. I burrow under the cover and deny that anything besides myself exists right now.  
Sometimes- only sometimes- I permit myself to act like a child.  
It’s a nice refuge, on occasion.

Surprisingly, I managed to get some sleep, though not much. I’m not refreshed when I wake up, exactly, but it’s not as if I have a pounding headache from last night’s, er, this morning’s drinking.  
I calmly sip some canis root tea that Ambarys, the innkeeper, made.  
The Dunmer sits down next to me, groaning. “I’ve been on my feet since five this morning, and went to bed at two, thanks to your friends.”  
He cracks a smile though, and I return it. “Sorry about them. No idea that they couldn’t hold their liquor.”  
“They’re not your typical Nords, that’s for sure.” he smiles, sipping his own tea.  
“Is that a kind comment about Nords coming from Ambarys?” his assistant, Malthyr Elenil, speaks. He just came in from the streets, the door closing behind him.  
Ambarys clicks his tongue, scowling a bit. “Not exactly kind. Just an observation.”  
I roll my eyes and chuckle. “You can’t hate every Nord you see, Ambarys. What about Brunwulf Free-Winter?”  
Last night, a Dunmer sat next to me and talked my ear off about the “noble Nord who should’ve been Jarl,” who actually cared a bit about the Dunmer and Argonian populations in and outside the city.  
Ambarys inclines his head. “That’s one good Nord for, what, a hundred racist ones?”  
I shrug. “Windhelm is an odd city. Whiterun, for one, is more inclusive than them. If not in representation, at least in idealism. I believe the housecarl of Jarl Balgruuf, Irileth, is a Dunmer.”  
The two Dunmer sigh, thinking, perhaps, about how they should have continued walking rather than stay here, when the Red Mountain forced them to leave their homeland.  
None can change the past, though.  
“At least we’ve got a few things from our homeland here. More Dunmer here than in any other city in Skyrim.” Malthyr points out.  
“Riften’s got a pretty good population. Pretty diverse, too. I know there’s an Argonian or two who live in the actual city, and the elves there aren’t excluded either.” I sip my tea, thinking about the southward city. It wasn’t exactly the best place, but it sure beat the snowiest city in Keizaal.  
“I heard through the grapevine, though, that the Dragonborn’s gonna marry a Jarl. Heard another rumor that it’s either Ulfric or Balgruuf.” Ambarys mentions.  
I snort into my tea. “Why would the Dragonborn marry either one of them? They could have anyone they want.”  
“I never said it was voluntary. A hero like the Dragonborn, marrying a Jarl? Likely it was to end the war or somethin’ like that.” he scowls at the ground. “If it ain’t what they want, then we’ll stand by ‘em, no matter what they do.”  
“Do we even know who the Dragonborn is?” Malthyr asks, shrugging. “Maybe they’re a Dunmer, like us. That’d be interesting, if Ulfric was marrying ‘em.”  
I say nothing, merely trying to keep up an interested front. “Speaking of Ulfric, does he ever come down to the Gray Quarter?”  
Ambarys scoffs. “If he ever comes down to look at the squalor he keeps us in, I’ll eat my shirt. I know Brunwulf tries to talk to him about it, that’s something, but it doesn’t do any good if he doesn’t understand. Ulfric doesn’t want to think about us more than he has to, and we get the pitiful responses that he’s busy with more important matters. The all-important Jarl goes to the Nord shops more often than any other place. In the marketplace, he’ll talk to the smith and his apprentice, both of whom worship the ground he walks on. He talks to the Cruel-Seas, Captain Lonely-Gale, the Shatter-Shields, Viola Giordano, Stone-Fist, and even gives coins to beggars- long as they’re Nords.  
“But I’ve never, in my entire time in this city, I have never seen the Jarl come down and look at the Gray Quarter and how he treats us. He can barely stomach talking about us, let alone look at us, and forget about talking to us. We’re lower than dirt in his opinion. I just hope that if those rumors are true, about the Dragonborn being an elf, I hope that it opens his eyes to the world around him. That Nords aren’t better than us, and that we aren’t better than them.” Ambarys finished, heaving a sigh.  
“We can hope,” Malthyr said, sighing himself. He got to work cleaning up the mess left behind by my honor guard and the regular patrons from last night. I watched him and Ambarys for a while before I stood to help, feeling awkward and unhelpful.  
After all, it was the least I could do, to help people that my soon-to-be-husband had kept, if not put, in this situation.

Ambarys and Malthyr initially protested against my help, but finally their grumbling ceased as I persisted. While it wasn’t exactly the most fun work possible, it was alright with the two Dunmer by my side. They bickered and argued back and forth light heartedly, talking about both current events and stories from long ago that made me laugh.  
“... and that’s why Ambarys is afraid of horkers now,” Malthyr said, finishing telling me a story.  
At that precise moment, the Thalmor mage came down the stairs, just catching the last of the sentence. He looked bewildered for a moment, then accepted it and the ridiculous amount of laughter that resulted from it.  
The Thalmor sat beside me at the bar, as the floor was drying from a thorough mopping. Unsurprisingly, drunk Nords weren’t exactly the neatest of drinkers.  
Malthyr went into the back room, stocking something or other, while Ambarys was taking a well deserved nap.  
“You know, I’ve never really explored Windhelm. At least, not very much beyond the initial scenery,” the Thalmor said.  
I chuckled. “It’s mean of me to say, but there’s not a whole lot of attractions within the city. Most of the residents aren’t very friendly to High Elves, nor to Elves as a whole. They tolerate us, but toleration isn’t respect.”  
The Altmer snorted. “That’s too true. Your name is Korina, right? I’m Wenther, Thalmor Justiciar. How was your night? Or, more importantly, how are you holding up?”  
“You’re very talkative for a High Elf. I’m doing alright, I suppose. Dreading actually facing everything I technically have to, but I suppose that I can’t really back out of it now.”  
Wenther awkwardly patted me on the back, offering me the only semblance of comfort I had had in quite some time. Everyone in the party knew what I had to do, what kind of person I had to bind myself to. Which made my moping seem both superfluous and indulgent on my part.  
“How long do you think we have, until the rest of the vanguard arrives?” he asked.  
“I don’t even remember where we left them, so I have no clue. I just know that I’ll be here for a while. Maybe there’s something interesting nearby. I went to Winterhold a while ago and got this claw for a puzzle lock in a Nordic Ruin. I think it’s nearby. So we could do that…” I shrugged. I didn’t really want to do anything, because it would make the time pass faster when I desperately didn’t want it to. But, it was probably better to do that then just wait around and drink myself into a stupor. Or something like that. I had no plans. I thought I was gonna die a while ago.  
You tend to not make plans when you think you’re on the verge of death. Weird, right?  
Wenther dug into a bowl of stew, slid his way by Ambarys, and the rest of the guard came down as well, some with more of a headache than others. Malthyr and Ambarys were kind enough to give them all something to eat, smirking the whole time. It was always amusing when a Nord couldn’t hold their liquor.  
“Ambarys, do you know where Yngol Barrow is?”  
The Dark Elf looked at me, searching his memory. “Yes, serjo. It’s past the farms outside the city, somewhere along the riverbank. Turn left when you exit the city, at the stables, and you’ll see it eventually.”  
I nodded, grateful that neither Dunmer had asked why I would want to explore a Nordic ruin.  
“Alright, who wants to explore an ancient burial site?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, fun fact: feedback encourages me to write more, and the best way to do that is with telling me what you think!  
> AKA comment.  
> Thanks for reading.


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